Marcus traced the photograph within seventy-two hours.
He came to the office on Friday afternoon and laid out what he had found on the conference table. The image had been taken from a street-level camera feed, not a phone, not a private photographer. A municipal camera that had been hacked, the footage lifted and printed.
"Whoever this is, they have technical resources," Marcus said. "The camera hack was clean. Professional."
Kade was at the head of the table. I was beside him. Killian, who had flown back from Barcelona the moment Kade called him, was on the other side, jet-lagged and sharp.
"The phone number?" Killian asked.
"Burner," Marcus said. "Registered to a shop in Newark that stopped trading eight months ago."
"So they planned this eight months ago," I said.
"At least," Ma
