47
“So where are we going?” I asked once I was again behind the wheel of the Gray Ghost, my phone plugged into the charger. The narrow, rutted dirt road was much easier to navigate in the daylight.
“When I was walking around to the back door before we made entry, I caught bits of the Delgados’ conversation. They were talking about getting new IDs.”
“They mention where from?”
“Picardo.” Conor beamed.
Picardo was the top producer of fake IDs in Phoenix. No matter what the state or federal governments did to try to make passports, drivers’ licenses, and other identification hack proof, Picardo somehow had a way to duplicate them.
Over the years, Conor had developed an arrangement with Picardo. He’d help us track down our fugitives who used his services, and we wouldn’t turn him in to th
