I didn't call Webb from the penthouse. Selene had drilled that kind of paranoia into me weeks ago.
I walked six blocks to a cramped, greasy café in the old district. It was sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a bodega. The espresso machine screamed over the noise of morning traffic. A guy two tables down was aggressively ignoring his newspaper. It was aggressively normal. Just an ordinary Tuesday, completely oblivious to the fact that I was about to negotiate with a guy who brokered black-market hit squads for a living.
Webb picked up on the second ring.
"Aurora. I was starting to think I scared you off."
"I'm still thinking about it."
"Fair enough," he said smoothly. "Rushed decisions usually end up being the fatal ones. Genevieve always understood that."
I let the name-drop slide.
