“So we’re safe?”
“We’re secure. For tonight.”
She looks at the bed. Then at me.
“One bed,” she says.
“Standard layout.”
“Right.”
She looks at the bathroom door. “Is there …?”
“Hot water. Soap. Towels.”
“Oh God.” She grabs one of the shopping bags. “I’m going to stay in there for an hour. Don’t come in unless the building is on fire.”
“Copy that.”
She disappears into the bathroom. The lock clicks.
The window draws me in. I check the street below—no black SUVs, no sirens. Just the steady, indifferent flow of Philadelphia traffic. And I check the contingency exit. It’s not elegant, but it’s there. An axe and rope. Ghost is nothing if not practical.
I pull the heavy drapes closed, and darkness falls over the room. My ribs throb, and a dull ache settles behind my eyes, deep and insistent. Exhaustion pulls at me. I sit on the edge of the bed, rolling my neck.
I need to contact the team.
I pull the burner phone from my pocket. It’s risky, but the hotel Wi-Fi provides a layer of cover if I route it right.
I type a sequence.
TO: WHISPER
MSG: PACKAGE SECURE. NOISE LEVEL HIGH. NEED SITREP.
I wait.
The shower turns on in the bathroom. The sound of water hitting tile.
I close my eyes. I can imagine her in there. The water sluicing off the dirt. The steam curling around her pale skin. The way her head would tilt back.
Stop it.
The phone buzzes.
FROM: WHISPER
MSG: CHATTER IS ZERO. NO APB. NO ALERTS.
I type back.
TO: WHISPER
MSG: CONFIRM. THEY ARE GHOSTING US.
FROM: WHISPER
MSG: CONFIRMED. SILENT RUNNING. THEY ARE HUNTING DIRECT. AVOID VECTORS.
