Eleni
I sit in the passenger seat of a black, bulletproof sedan, watching the blinking dot of the tracker on my phone. “Left here.”
Tony turns smoothly. The engine is nearly silent, which seems almost pointless in the noisy, New York City night, but I’m not giving up any advantage here. It took me embarrassingly long to remember the tracker—or, more accurately, to hope the feds hadn’t bothered to take it off of him. I was halfway through hacking the city’s FBI base when I looked down at my own hand and the rings caught the light.
“And…that’s the last precinct turnoff I know of,” Mikey says from the back seat, where he’s sliding together piece after piece of a sniper rifle, just in case. “Bronx cops don’t bother with spots this far out.”
“Me either,” Tony says. “Maybe they took him to o
