NICK: Manage it.
The phone rang before I could answer.
I took the call. “Mercer.”
“Are you seated?”
His voice was flat enough to cut paper.
“Yes.”
“Good. Keep your belt on. The vehicle is pulling into a controlled hold point ahead. Sarah has eyes on the route. Daniel is moving to meet you.”
My fingers curled around the phone until the edge pressed into my skin. “Was this a threat or an attempt?”
A pause, almost too small to exist.
“Unknown.”
“That's not comforting.”
“It's accurate.”
“I did ask for that.”
The SUV slowed and turned off the main road into a cleared gravel apron beside a low stand of scrub and stone. The lead escort parked across the entrance. The rear escort stopped behind us. No doors opened.
Cufflink made an impatient sound. “Is that Mercer? Put him on speaker.”
I turned my face toward him. “No.”
His mouth opened.
“Mr. Miles,” I said, “unless your cufflinks deploy smoke pellets or contain a tiny British intelligence officer, I suggest you stop assisting.”
Naomi coughed once into her fist.
Nick went quiet, and the fine hairs along my arms lifted before he spoke.
“Juliette,” he said.
“I'm here.”
“The assigned vehicle manifest was accessed.”
The road outside sharpened. The pale dust. The matte green of the escort hood. The driver’s hand resting near the gearshift, still and ready.
“All transfer vehicles?” I asked.
“No.”
My stomach went cold.
“Mine.”
“Yes.”
Cufflink stopped moving.
