Thirteen
“Are you sure it’s him?” Grace asked, her disbelief palpable.
In her office, Heron shared his lenscape, reviewing the first pieces of footage returned by the spyders.
Heron licked his lips. “I suppose it could be his doppelgänger, but I doubt it. Crate has a rather distinctive chin.”
Heron jutted his chin out comically.
Grace’s mind began to curl up around the edges. “How can Crate be moving around a secure city without identification? You’re sure he isn’t registered?”
“No registration. No public or private identity. No clearances. Nothing except the expired tourist visa, which presumably, is how he arrived in the zone.” Heron scratched his nose. “If he was picked up by patrol, he would be thrown on the Midnight Train and sent off to the stormlands.”
She leaned back in her
