The photo is of us in this car on this road and it was taken from somewhere ahead of us which means whoever sent it is not behind us.
They are waiting.
"How far to the safehouse?" I ask. My voice is level. I am proud of that.
"Fourteen miles." Lucien has already killed the headlights. We are moving on moonlight and instinct down a road that has gone very dark and very quiet, and his hands on the wheel are the same as they always are steady, unhurried, giving nothing away to anyone watching.
"They know the direction but not the specific location," I say, thinking out loud, working the problem. "If they had the exact address they wouldn't have sent a warning. The photo is pressure. They want us to stop moving."
"Which means we keep moving," he says.
"Which means we keep moving," I agre
