GRAY
The rearview mirror tells lies and truths in equal measure. That blue sedan's been three cars back for the last twenty miles, matching our speed, taking the same exits. Could be coincidence. Could be someone heading the same direction. But my wolf doesn't believe in coincidence, and seven years with Interpol taught me that paranoia keeps you breathing.
I shift lanes without signaling, watch the sedan hesitate before following. Aye, we've got company.
"Why are we changing lanes so much?" Samira asks from the passenger seat, empty Snickers wrapper in her lap, chocolate smudging the corner of her mouth. She's been working through the snacks methodically, like someone cataloguing treasures that might disappear.
"Just being careful."
The burner phone buzzes against my thigh—the third
