The car drove for forty minutes. She counted.
She had her phone in her coat pocket — they hadn't searched her, which was the first indication that whoever had organized this was not a professional criminal operation. Professionals searched. These men were hired for muscle, not for craft. She got her hand to the phone twice but the second man had her wrists loosely restrained and she couldn't open the screen without him noticing, so she noted the turns instead. Left out of Midtown, highway access from the west side, roughly north-northeast, a bridge crossing, then surface roads for the final fifteen minutes. Industrial. Quiet.
A warehouse. Of course.
Inside it was clean — recently cleaned, not a permanent base. Tables, chairs, a folding screen in one corner, a camera tripod without a cam
