The rain hit the windshield of the surveillance van in heavy, rhythmic slaps.
Inside the narrow, metallic rear cabin, four monitors cast a harsh blue glow across Marcus’s face. He sat hunched over the main diagnostic bench, his long legs cramped in the tight space, his large hands resting flat against the edge of the console. Beside him, Chloe worked with cold, quiet speed, her thumbs flying across her tablet as she tracked the signal bouncing between three private satellite nodes above the river.
The text message from Gideon Vance was still pinned to the secondary monitor: I’m taking what Arthur stole from me twenty years ago, Chloe. Starting with the child who carries his real blood.
“He’s using an automated proxy server out of Zurich,” Chloe said, her voice a clean, unyielding blade
