Chapter Five

A HAND SLIDES over Ravi’s ribs and comes to rest over his heart, the touch rousing him from slumber. He murmurs in encouragement, clasping the smaller hand within his own, pressing back into the hot body behind him.

“Are you awake, my sweet?” A thumb sweeps across his nipple, kisses pepper the back of his neck.

“Mm.” Feeling warm and wanted, Ravi smiles. “No, I’m sleeping.”

A soft chuckle presses to his ear. “Is that so?” Sharp teeth latch on to his earlobe. Ravi gasps, goosebumps spreading over his skin. “Maybe I can be a good dream.” Snaking a hand down, Cayenne maps the topography of Ravi’s chest, tracing over his abs lower and lower until their hand wraps around his half-hard cock.

A low, wanton growl in Ravi’s ear kicks his arousal into high gear. “What do you want?” he asks, breath coming fast, thrusting lazily into their touch. “I’ll give you anything.”

“I’ll take it all,” they chuckle, rolling Ravi onto his back and slithering on top of him. They slide down easily onto his aching cock, so easily, already ready for him. As ever, they feel so good Ravi is sure he’s going to come apart at the seams, unraveled and tattered.

Something about thresholds niggles at the back of his mind. He wonders aloud, “How…how did you get in here?” All the while he sets his thumbs into the slope of Cayenne’s hip bones and guides them as they rock, his thighs already trembling with eagerness. Mouth watering, he watches as a bead of moisture wells up at the tip of their cock and spills over to pool on Ravi’s stomach. His admiring gaze travels up to their gem-cut eyes, rimmed in gold and shadowed with dark grays and purples, storm colors.

Cayenne moans instead of answering, driving their silk-smooth heat down around him, faster, harder. They use him for their own pleasure, and fuck if that isn’t exactly what Ravi needs, shivering and swearing under his breath. He rolls his head back into the pillow, letting Cayenne take what they want from him.

“You’re perfect like this, mon coeur.” Cayenne grins and braces themself up on his chest, and that’s when he notices their hands are dripping red to the elbows with blood.

He jerks awake, hand flying on autopilot for the gun on his nightstand. Ravi barely gets a hand around the grip before realizing it was another dream. The worst kind, the kind that leaves him hard and hating himself, as shattered as those clay golems.

Ravi sets the Glock back down and sits on the edge of the bed, dragging in ragged breaths, scrambling for his well-worn techniques to regain control of himself. He sinks his head into his hands, scraping his nails over his scalp. Faint light pours in through the window, pale and gray. Not even dawn.

“Fuck,” he hisses, pressing the heel of his hand to the base of his insistent cock. A cold shower won’t help, he knows that from experience. He’s desperately tired, desperately turned on, and desperate to not come while thinking about his mother’s murderer.

So, he gets up and starts his morning routine. Push-ups followed by sit-ups, getting his blood flowing somewhere useful. The flight is in a handful of hours and Ravi could use a lot more sleep, but when he looks at the tangled sheets, something like dread creeps in his gut.

Instead, he runs through his routine once more for good measure, adding in more reps and pushing himself harder, and pulls on some clothes to take a run. Exercise and coffee don’t replace real rest, but they’ll have to do.

*

“ANY LAST-MINUTE tips on dealing with vampires, Doc?” Harry asks as they round the second-to-last flight of stairs. The vamp lives in a well-heeled brownstone in a fashionable part of town, recently updated but still keeping most of its original charms intact. Maybe a historical site, Ravi has no idea.

“Beheading,” Val intones.

“Or direct sunlight,” adds Constance.

“Stake through the heart’s a classic,” Ravi mutters, bringing up the rear.

Nate turns and looks at the rest of the team, appalled. “I was going to say, ‘mind your manners.’ Jesus Christ, you guys.” He shakes his head. “According to my buddy, Genevieve is like him; a human-friendly vamp. Cuddly. Gets consent for a little hemoglobin, all cool.”

Ravi snorts. “There’s no such thing as a human-friendly vamp. Some have just figured out a more survivable hunting strategy.”

“Oof. Then you really don’t want to hear that story about how I discovered the supernatural, my guy.”

“Ravi is wise to be wary,” Constance agrees grimly. “These demon-blooded beasts play nice as long as it is convenient to do so. Once they get hungry enough, the veneer drops and the monster is revealed.”

“I disagree,” Val says, shrugging as everyone regards her with shock. “Occasionally the rare vampire has overcome their natural bloodlust and been of benefit to humanity. Not often, but it is not unknown.”

Ravi grimaces, grudgingly recalling a few family history lessons that have suggested as much.

“Thank you, Val,” Nate says. “Exactly. So, Harry and I pull the old tried-and-true charm offensive, and you three are here to be a subtle, muscley hint that we’re not for snacking on.”

“Offer diplomacy with one hand and wield a sword in the other.” Val nods in approval. “I shall not move against this Genevieve unless her actions demand it.”

At her familiar words Ravi looks away, adjusting the set of his cuffs. He opted for something nondescript today, a simple slim-cut charcoal suit with a dark shirt. Naturally, he still has his 9mm and both brass knuckles hidden in his shoulder holsters. The thin flask of holy water in his jacket pocket is just extra insurance, in case this vampire turns out to be less cuddly than promised.

Constance moves her hand in some kind of archaic flourish. “We shall be quiet as little church mice, my fellow, fret ye not.”

“Maybe best to rein in the ‘ye olde’ speech, Constance,” Harry reminds her as they approach the vampire’s door.

Constance murmurs to Ravi, lengthening her vowels in an exaggerated North American accent, “Well, gosh, pals, how is this? Better?” It’s a truly terrible impersonation, and Ravi coughs to cover a laugh.

Harry raps on the door. A petite pixie of a woman with short auburn hair opens it, giving them all an interested once-over. “I don’t remember ordering out,” she says silkily. To Ravi’s eye, she appears unarmed and untrained for martial combat, her frame soft and willowy; but the way her eyes move gives her away. Pure predator.

Harry gives her a winning grin. “We’re not delivery, Ms. Zabek.”

The vampire lays a hand alongside her face, tapping her foot. “You are those visitors Miles told me to expect. He said it was very important.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nate says earnestly. “Miles is a friend of mine. We have a few questions we were hoping you could help us with.”

“Miles and I go back several decades, but he did not mention there would be so many of you.” She purses her lips together in disapproval, eyes catching on Val’s intimidating frame.

“We’re not looking to cause trouble, Ms. Zabek,” Harry assures her. “We’ve come a long way to get your expertise on a historical matter.”

“Flattery,” the vampire murmurs, looking even chillier. She narrows her gray eyes for a moment, then sighs. “I owe Miles a favor. You may come in.” She abandons the door altogether, disappearing into her apartment.

Harry and Nate look at each other. “The old charm offensive,” Harry mutters sardonically, waving everyone in. Before she can enter, Ravi stops her with a hand to her shoulder, then slinks through the door before she can protest. If Harry thinks he’s going to let the Chosen enter a vampire’s lair without him checking it out first, she’s got another think coming.

Ravi quickly scans for hidden inhabitants, checking behind the door, the corners, noting all possible points of entry. The vampire has her back to them on the far side of the room, occupied with her bar cart. He turns back to the group with a brief nod.

Harry gives him a half-lidded look. “Is this going to be a regular thing?”

He shrugs and takes position by the wall as the group files in, standing ready for anything.

“You have a lovely home, Ms. Zabek,” Nate says. It’s not an empty compliment; the apartment is beautiful, high ceilinged and well-lit despite having no windows, and tastefully furnished with decor and artwork ranging from multiple eras.

The vampire turns back to the team, holding a violet cocktail in a martini glass in her small hand. She keeps a couch between herself and them, Ravi notes. He divides his attention between her and the rest of the room, alert for any hidden persons or evidence of spellwork, eyes constantly roving.

“Why don’t you just tell me why you are all here?”

“Of course,” Harry says, glancing at all the available seating they haven’t been invited to sit on, and clears her throat. “We’re looking for information about someone you used to work with.”

“I used to work with a lot of people. An industrious vampire has to make a living.” She sips at her cocktail, tone icy.

Ravi’s eyes catch on an unframed painting on the wall, and he steps in to inspect it.

“Ms. Zabek,” Harry continues in her most charming tone. “Did you used to work for a man in 1920s Paris?”

“That was a long time ago. I’m sure I can’t remember.”

Harry drops some of her sweetness. “Pretty sure I’d remember if one of my coworkers was someone who could alter time.”

Keeping a careful ear on the conversation, Ravi leans close to the painting, brow furrowed.

The vampire laughs, a throaty sound that belies her small frame. “Alter time? You’re talking about a chronomancer? Ridiculous. They’re practically a myth.”

“This is important, Ms. Za—”

Ravi interrupts. “Is this a Tamara de Lempicka?”

The room goes silent. Ravi doesn’t turn around. It’s an original. He can see the brushstrokes.

The vampire weaves her way through the team and joins Ravi with an appraising nod. “Good eye. Yes, it is.”

Ravi shrugs off the praise. “Her work is distinctive.” He angles his head to the side, taking in the bold colors, the sensuous lines. “I’ve never seen this one before.”

“Nobody has,” she says with clear pleasure. “She painted it for me.” She turns back to the team, lips pursed, then motions Ravi to face her. Warily, he does. “Where are you all from?” she asks him with her steely predator’s eyes.

“Atlanta.”

“I’ve never been. What’s it like?”

Ravi thinks for a moment before tidily summing up all the operational knowledge he’s gleaned from his years being stationed there. “The traffic sucks. Macaroni and cheese counts as a vegetable. If someone says, ‘bless your heart,’ it’s an insult.”

She laughs richly, hand aside her face. She curls her small cupid’s bow of a mouth into a closed-lipped smile. “The little redhead always hated humidity. Complained about it constantly. Surprising they’d spend any time in Georgia at all.”

Ravi doesn’t react. Not even a twitch.

She smiles widely, her fangs peeking from behind her upper lip. “Your heartbeat is uncommonly calm, even when walking into a vampire’s den. Except when I talk about le petit renard, and then it goes tripping in your chest. That’s interesting, don’t you think?”

Not waiting for a response, she pivots on her heel and seats herself in a green wingback armchair. She gestures magnanimously to the velvet sofas. “Come sit, all of you. I will talk to you.”

Exchanging glances, everyone makes themselves comfortable. Harry sits next to Ravi and whispers, “Those art history lessons finally came in handy, huh?”

He shrugs, a little embarrassed. When he was younger, as long as he ran his laps and hit his targets, no one really cared what electives he took.

Harry turns to the vampire and says, “We appreciate it, Ms. Zabek.”

“You may call me Genevieve.” She smiles with closed lips again, fangs hidden away. “An old woman like me does enjoy the occasional trip down memory lane.”

Harry offers brief introductions, giving first names only, then asks again about Genevieve’s old boss.

“He went by Marquette. You have to understand, after the war, Paris was…” Genevieve goes misty, eyes fixed in a faraway time. “It was the center of the world. Where all the great minds met. Of course, there was money to be made there, or fame to be won, and the most beautiful of people to be seduced. Whatever type you fancied.” She contemplates her drink for a moment before taking a sip. “Marquette wasn’t interested in any of that. He was only interested in power. He himself had a unique talent; he could create doors out of nothing.”

Constance gasps, sitting forward. “A Keeper of the Ways!”

Genevieve gives her a perplexed blink. “An odd turn of phrase. Thyramancer, he used to call himself. I’ve never heard of one before or since.”

“Anyone else heard of this?” Harry asks, looking at each of them in turn. Ravi shakes his head. Even Nate and Val are clueless. Only Constance nods, adding, “A gate wizard. An uncommonly rare talent, though not unheard of. Perhaps there used to be more of them in my day. They possess the magical talent to open doors anywhere they can visualize, even places they have not been before.”

“Yes,” Genevieve says with a hint of nostalgia. “We could go anywhere we pleased, and often did. Marquette had quite a stable of us; little pets of various dangerous talents he would use to take care of his enemies. The man collected both enemies and pets the way another man might collect stamps.” She sets her drink on the glass table beside her. “I was just a young leech, newly made. Eager to taste the world. I did a lot of things I am not proud of, but nothing I did compared to what Marquette had his little fox do.”

Ravi can feel the way the rest of the team carefully avoid looking at him. He hates being the center of attention, and keeps his impassive expression tightly controlled.

Genevieve curls her feet up under her, rests her chin on her fist. “They showed up one day fresh off a boat, no name given, speaking the most deplorable dialect of colony French, and dressed in clothes that were fashionable over fifty years ago. I’m not sure how Marquette found them, or how they found Marquette, but when le petit renard joined up with all of us seasoned supernatural thieves and killers, we suddenly had a lot more time to ourselves. That kid put us out of the job.” She shakes her head, smiling faintly. “I took up a few hobbies, I had so much free time. Met many artists at Montparnasse, became a muse for a while.” She goes distant again, gazing away into her paintings.

“The chronomage, Genevieve,” Harry gently prods.

Genevieve turns back and shrugs. “Turns out there are very few problems that can’t be solved by being able to go anywhere and anywhen you like. The two of them were the perfect duo. Not just a knife in the dark, but an invisible knife; and then it turns out the knife that made the cut was never there at all.” The vampire turns up her palms, fingers whisking over each other as if she had been holding something made of sand that had blown away.

“Any information you have about them could be useful. Anything else you can tell us?”

Genevieve considers this, a thumb to her cupid mouth. “The little fox was fun, can’t argue with that. A firebrand in the sheets, as I recall.” Ravi’s heart skips. She glances at him knowingly but continues without pause. “They were young, but had figured themself out fairly early, it seemed to me. Had a few forays forward into time that gave them a unique perspective on many things. The Années Folles were the perfect setting for such a thing, awash in free-thinkers and iconoclasts, people who turned their nose up at conventional thinking.” Genevieve pauses, then asks, “What are you intending to do with this information, I wonder?” Her eyes slide over to Ravi.

Harry has dropped her overly polite approach, her usual brash demeanor edging closer to the surface. “Well, here’s the thing; we won’t know until we have the info. We’re not looking to hunt or capture them or anything like that. Honestly, Genevieve, we’re trying to stay off their radar and keep them from messing with us.”

Genevieve’s thin brows rise. “Interesting. Would you agree with that?” She looks to Ravi.

He grunts. “Pretty much. Why? Are you going to warn them we were here asking questions?”

Her slim shoulders rise in a shrug. “I have no loyalty to the little fox, as they have none to me. They were dismissive of the idea of family, which some of us at the time believed we were. Even in our tribe of misfits, they always stood apart. I got the impression that they never truly believed any of us were real. Not real people, as such, and not just because some of us weren’t human. Fun to play with, maybe, but they bored easily of that once they had gotten what they wanted. They were impulsive, a poor strategist, but that hardly mattered with all of time at their disposal and with Marquette pulling their strings. Marquette was the only one they had any real respect for. Marquette, however…” She shakes her head.

“Greed isn’t satisfied even with the whole world set at its feet. Marquette was only interested in power, and another word for power is control. We were favored pets, to be sure, living in clover. But all of us were under Marquette’s thumb in one way or another. He had me kept under the leash with blood, others by debts or blackmail or addiction; whatever it took to keep us loyal. Le petit renard was his favorite by far, but Marquette just couldn’t help himself, and had to exert his grip over them too.” She makes a fist in demonstration.

There’s a pause in which no one else seems willing to ask, so Ravi does. “What happened to Marquette?”

She picks her drink back up and sips. “There was a shop Marquette liked to make deals out of. Every year for ten years on the very same day, they would find one piece of him displayed in the shop window, fresh as the day he died.”

“Jesus.” Nate recoils.

“As I said, it was a long time ago. After Marquette was gone, we pets scattered to the winds, and I think at last count very few of us still live. I had no idea the little fox was among that number until now. I haven’t seen them since, oh, 1926, I’d say.” Genevieve finishes the last of her drink and motions it toward the team. “Can I make anyone an Aviation?”

Is this it? A little backstory that merely colors in what he already knew? Ravi crosses his arms over his chest, tamping down a flash of irritation. “None of this is helpful.”

Genevieve cocks her head. “What information were you hoping I’d have?”

“Something,” he growls, fighting a sudden wave of exhaustion. “How to anticipate what they’ll do. How to stop them from doing it. Weaknesses we can reliably use. How to…how to lock them out of a timeline, or keep them from using their ability on you, or…”

“You want to know how to control the uncontrollable,” Genevieve says. “You want to know how to rein in a storm.”

Despite himself, Ravi startles and stares at her.

“You cannot,” she continues softly, and if she wasn’t a vampire, he would have sworn it was with kindness. “All you can do is try to stay dry.” She rises to her feet. “I really don’t know anything more. I wouldn’t have the first idea how to contact them even if I wanted to, and if there is anyone alive who might know more than I, I don’t know of them. A time traveler can be a ghost in the world if they wish to be.”

“Ghosts are easier,” Constance mutters, standing with the rest of the group. “A little salt, a little silver…”

“Give my regards to Miles,” she remarks to Nate, then favors the rest of them with a small smile. “If you do make any attempts on the little fox, do be cautious. Marquette learned the hard way that if you ill-treat your pets, they will learn to bite.” She flashes her fangs.

Bites, Ravi thinks.

“Thank you for talking to us, Genevieve.” Ravi is dimly aware of Harry speaking. “Sorry to have made you nervous when we arrived.”

“You are forgiven. There was recently a mass die-off of vampires. It pays to be cautious.”

Nate sounds sympathetic. “Yeah, we, uh, heard about that. Did you lose anyone?”

Genevieve hums a note, a musical negative. “The fewer of my kind out there leaving corpses, the less suspicions get cast on me. As your sharp-eyed, well-dressed friend might be able to tell you, I enjoy immortality for its access to the finer things in life, not to glut myself on bodily fluids any more than I have to.” She waves a hand at her decorated walls like a proud gallery curator.

Bites. Fuck, he’s been an idiot.

Val stands fully head and shoulders above the vampire. “Impressive that the loss of your soul has not defined your actions, Genevieve Zabek.”

“…Thank you?”

A round of farewells that Ravi barely hears, as the team leaves the apartment and starts heading down the stairs.

“Well,” Nate says brightly. “She was nice. I liked her.”

Ravi remembers that night on the dock, night-black waves lapping at the wooden posts, the smell of saltwater. The inky needle-strewn mouth of the nix, the way Cayenne had swayed and clung to him, terrified and trapped with the venom in their system.

Of course. Get nix venom from Guinto. The black marketeer said he could get anything. Enough venom for tranq darts. Maybe The Trust can synthesize it. That, along with Constance’s spell and—

The second realization comes on the heels of the first so suddenly Ravi’s head spins, as dizzy as if he had been drugged himself.

“Fuck,” he says thickly, leaning his full weight against the railing.

Dimly he feels Nate’s hand on his shoulder as the rest of the team circles around him.

Harry slides into his field of vision, bending down to meet his eyes. “Hey, Rav, hey. You okay?”

“It’s me,” he says hollowly. “I’ve done this.”

“What do you mean?”

He puts his hands over his face, trying to remember how to breathe.

“Ravi,” Val says, “are you unwell? Do you wish me to teleport you back home?”

He lets his hands fall. “It’s my fucking fault.” He drops to his haunches, sitting in the middle of the stairs of some anonymous brownstone in the heart of New York. “I’m responsible.”

Harry sits next to him, her hands reaching for his before pulling back in uncertainty. “What is?”

He looks her in the eye. “I know how to get them. I know how to fight Cayenne.”

“That’s…good? That’s great, right?”

He laughs. “No.” It’s an absurd joke. A snake eating its own tail and choking on it. He laughs again, while everyone exchanges concerned glances and arranges themselves on the stairs around him.

“Let us in on the jest, mine fellow,” Constance says while pulling a metal thermos from her satchel. Steam billows up when she unscrews the top.

“I’ve been thinking it over. How The Trust even got their hands on Cayenne in the first place. How…how the whole inciting incident got started, in our future.”

Constance presses a warm cup into his hands. He sniffs it.

“It is merely tea.”

“I don’t like—”

“Drink the tea, witch-hunter.”

After a pause, he takes a sip. “It’s not as simple as they lure Cayenne onto a fast jet. That’s not sustainable. Not long-term.”

“Okay?” Nate leans back against the stairwell wall with his feet on different steps. “That makes sense. What else would they need?”

Ravi looks into the mug of tea as if directing his words into the cloud of steam. “They would need to drug Cayenne to have any success at keeping them in one time without shifting away or rewinding their consciousness.” He takes another sip, not tasting anything beyond hot leaf-flavored water. “I know what drug would be effective, and I know how to get it.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Oh, balls,” she whispers. Harry is an excellent detective; she gets it already.

“I didn’t get rid of that poster. There’s…there’s DNA on it. It’s in a safety deposit box along with a memory card that has the only known picture of them on it. It’s recent, but there are enough similarities to their past self that…” Ravi swallows, focusing on the bitter tang of the tea, the warmth of the cup on his palms. “I kept them. Just in case,” he rasps through a clinging net of guilt. The present they sent him, purple kiss on the corner, a reminder of how freedom felt. The selfie they sent, a gesture of unconditional trust. And here Ravi is, ready to make them into weapons.

A thug in a suit. A loyal little agent.

Tentatively, Nate gives Ravi a smile. “That’s smart, man. Nothing wrong with being prepared. You’re a secret agent, you gotta think about that kind of stuff.”

Ravi takes a slow, centering breath. “They’d also need some kind of magic that could control them even while undrugged. Some kind of ‘off’ switch.” He gestures a hand toward Constance. “Like the version of Constance’s spell that I was going to ask her to refine into something more reliable, after we’ve dealt with her demon.”

Sheepishly, Constance raises her hand. “I have already been working on that in my spare time, in truth.”

“Don’t,” Ravi says harshly. “These are all… These are the fucking puzzle pieces, and I now know how they fit together. It doesn’t matter that it’s not going to be me in the future who uses it on Cayenne, or even me who orders it.” And it won’t be, there’s not even a slight wavering in his iron certainty on that. “I’m the one who puts it all together, who figures out the formula to catch and control a chronomage. Sometime in the future, someone uses it on Cayenne. Someone captures them, tortures them, and radicalizes them. And that creates this whole fucking situation.”

A snake eating its tail, an ouroboros in which Ravi is both perpetrator and victim.

Harry says, “You think maybe someone in an opposing faction? Or your aunt?”

Ravi shrugs. He is so fucking tired. “Who can say?”

Nate whistles low. “Wow, okay, so this is some serious cyclical Greek tragedy shit, my guy. But…hold up. I’m following, but…how do time paradoxes work? I’m thinking about Marty McFly vanishing from that photo. Doesn’t just knowing this change the future?”

Ravi shakes his head. “I only have…hints and clues to go on. But I think…time doesn’t get rewritten as we experience it. If I can change things, then we’d have to wait until that moment in time does or does not occur, in order for the changes to take hold.”

“Shoulda taken Genevieve up on that Aviation,” Harry says wistfully. “This is not a concept to be handled by sobriety.” She rubs the bridge of her nose. “What do you want to do, dude? None of this changes our present reality, that Cayenne is a very real threat to us, to your organization.”

Ravi hands the empty cup back to Constance. All you can do is try to stay dry. “We do nothing.”

Val glowers. “We do nothing?”

“It’s the only thing we can do,” Ravi grits out, gripping his hair with both hands. “I destroy the evidence I already have. Constance scraps the spell. And I take the secret of the drug to my grave. That’s the only way we can break the cycle, change the future. The past. Fuck, you know what I mean.”

“So, whatever Cayenne is planning, we just let them do it? You want to do nothing?”

“Yes, I love being useless,” Ravi scoffs, borrowing a cup of Harry’s sarcasm. “I don’t want to do nothing.” His hands flex on air. He wants to move, to take action. To not feel so fucking helpless.

“We may guard against the chronomancer’s capture in the future while still opposing their machinations in the present,” Val suggests. “We stand vigilant for any moves they make and foil them as we can. Should we see them, we seize opportunities as we may.”

Harry and Nate exchange a swift, indecipherable look, but before Ravi can inquire, his phone buzzes.

The number on the caller ID is redacted. His aunt. He makes a sound that resembles a laugh the way an empty husk resembles the cicada left it stuck to the tree bark. He swipes into the call. “Ma’am.”

“Ravi. You and the Chosen are still in New York, yes? There’s a possible incident with the Manhattan branch. We are not sure what’s going on, only that the new Branch Director is missing and the hub has gone dark. We can’t get in touch. Are you nearby?”

“Ten minutes out,” he answers, squaring his shoulders, head clearing. When Ravi stands, the rest follow his lead. “We’re on it. I’ll keep you posted.”

Padme takes the briefest of pauses before saying briskly, “Good luck, agent.” One eyebrow jumps up Ravi’s forehead; it’s practically an outright declaration of fondness. She hangs up.

Smoothing the lines of his suit, Ravi says, “The Manhattan branch has gone offline.”

“Speak of the devil,” Harry drawls, arms crossed. “Let me guess, they’re making a move on the New York family?”

“There is no New York family. Manhattan is an intel hub. And yeah. Seems likely.”

“An intel hub? Even worse.”

“Considerably,” Ravi sighs, drawing his gun to run through a quick magazine check. “But at least it’s something we can do. Damage control.”