BRANDON
One o’clock. Josephine Shaw Memorial Fountain, Bryant Park.
From the inside of the food truck facing Bryant Park in Sixth Avenue, Cary and I monitor the satellite covering the front of the memorial fountain. In about three minutes, we should be in contact with Oliver. My left ear gives me the line for Stan, Pauline, and the Wolf; they’re only a few miles behind Pauline as she is getting ready. My right ear offers me Silvanus’s line.
In every corner of the streets, people are on standby: walking civilians, a man making out with his girlfriend by a bench, a lady feeding the pigeons, and a man selling hotdogs in a food cart. All of them are Jason’s Wolves in disguise.
I tap my earpiece and speak, “Stan, what’s on your view down there?”
“We’re still waiting,” he answers. “Oliver s
