For a moment, Wren couldn't move at all.
She'd built an image of Harold Vance over the last frantic day — a shadow, a name on Desmond's diagram, a distant architect of violence orchestrated from somewhere far removed from the actual bloodshed. The man standing in the shed's doorway matched none of that imagining. He was older than she'd expected, silver-haired, patrician in a way that seemed almost theatrical against the gravel yard's chaos, his coat unmarked by dirt or blood despite standing in the middle of what had clearly been, minutes earlier, an active firefight.
"Where's Cruz," she said, and heard the fear in her own voice, raw and unhidden.
"Your biker is alive, as far as I'm aware," Vance said, unbothered, as though she'd asked him something trivial. "Occupied elsewhere at the
