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“We don't know that either.”

“You're giving me a lot of fucking nothing, Bishop.”

“It's what I have.”

I rub my jaw. “What does the client want?”

“Mercer gone before he finds whoever he's looking for.”

I wait.

Bishop continues. “He finds leverage. Family. Friends. Neighbors. Anyone who can give him what he wants.”

Something cold settles low in my stomach. “He hurts civilians?”

“He uses whoever is useful.”

“Women?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“Kids?”

A pause. “Doesn't matter.”

My grip tightens around the phone. “Where is he?”

“Staying outside town under the name Greg Marks. Rental property. Cash. Vehicle isn't registered to him.”

“Routine?”

“Still building it.”

Of course.

“You said he's been here forty-eight hours.”

“He's careful.”

“So am I.”

“I know.”

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “What does he look like?”

“File is coming.”

“Does he know he's being hunted?”

“No reason to think so.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“No.”

Better.

“What else?”