The safe house in Hoboken is the first floor of a stately old brownstone. There is even a backyard. Which is where I’m sitting, my coat pulled close, while I sip coffee, soaking up the winter sun. The air is scented of brine and diesel—the ferry port on the Hudson River only a block away.
James toddles around the small space—a brick patio with a weathered wooden table surrounded by dormant flower beds. Frank walks on one side of James and Blue on the other. James doesn’t really need them anymore—his legs are getting strong, his balance good. But he puts out a hand, gripping onto Blue’s shoulder when he stops, leaning forward to pick up a stick. He turns back to me, showing off the new prize.
“That looks like an eye poker,” I say.
Frank gently puts his mouth on it. James balks, pulling the stick back. “No,” he tells Frank clear as a bell. That’s one word he’s got down pat. Frank releases the stick and sits, tail wagging.
“Throw it for him,” I suggest. James eyes me warily, gauging whether my suggestion is just a ploy to separate him from his stick. “He’ll bring it back.” James looks unconvinced. Frank stands and backs up, eyeing the stick. James moves it to the left and Frank’s rapt attention moves with it.
James tosses it with a laugh. The stick lands a foot in front of him. Frank leaps onto it, capturing the stick, and dropping it at James’s feet, tail swinging wildly with pride as he backs up, ready for the next toss.
“Goof noy,” James says, his version of good boy, bending down to pick up the stick again.
The door behind me opens, and I turn to see Mulberry closing it behind him. “I think they found a new game,” I say. “This could be hours of fun.”
Mulberry watches as Frank retrieves the stick again and nods. “This is excellent,” he announces.
We watch in silence for a few minutes until my coffee cup is empty. “I’m going in for more, you want some?” I ask, holding up my mug.
Mulberry shakes his head.
The kitchen is warm and scented of coffee and melted butter. Simon stands at the stove, a bowl of pancake batter at his elbow. He glances over his shoulder at me and smiles. The white shirt he’s wearing looks brand new, but the jeans hanging off his hips are molded with age. His feet are bare, and that makes my chest tighten with emotions I can’t deal with at all.
I cross to the coffee maker and refill my cup. Simon opens the fridge and pulls out the heavy cream, passing it to me. “What time is your ferry?” he asks.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the cream. “I’m going to catch the six-thirty. Get to Robert’s at seven. The dinner starts at eight.”
Simon nods, agreeing with the plan we already have. “I’d like to go over it all again,” he says.
“Sure,” I agree, moving to the table. “After breakfast, during James’s morning nap.”
We eat Simon’s pancakes at the wooden kitchen table, sunlight pouring in through the windows. The conversation is light, all a bunch of nothing. We are all getting along fine. It’s weird. Sort of. But also, my life is super weird generally. So this is actually kind of par for the course.
After breakfast, Mulberry and I take James to the park while Simon stays back, organizing our gear for tonight. When we return, James’s eyes are heavy, and I take him up to the bedroom with the three dogs.
Blue follows me back down and I find Mulberry and Simon at the dining room table. Weapons and equipment cover the dark lacquered wood. The shades are drawn and the room is lit by a chandelier—the crystals throwing shards of warm yellow light around the elegant room, giving the weaponry an air of sophistication.
There are two laptops open on the table. Surveillance feeds show the outside of Richard’s hotel room, the inside of his hotel room, and his camera phone’s feed, which is in his suit jacket. Simon installed the cameras in the hotel room as soon as we had Richard’s reservation info.
The feed shows Richard on the bed—ornate dark brown wood with four posts and enough pillows to satisfy the most discerning of kings. His broad shoulders are nestled in the cushioning, one forearm thrown over his eyes. Sunlight pours in the large windows, bathing his white shirt in sunlight. The slow, steady rise of his chest suggest the man is napping.
“Sydney,” Simon’s voice pulls my focus.
“Sorry?” I ask with a little head shake, raising my gaze to him.
Simon is holding out a circle of rope—blood-red and smooth. “We should practice your knots again.” Mulberry’s gaze flicks to my face and a smirk flashes across his lips before he drops his focus to the earpiece he’s removing from a small case.
“Okay,” I say, reaching for the rope. Our fingers brush as I take the half-inch thick supple coil. It feels almost like a snake, slippery against my skin.
“If you’re able to drug him,” Simon says, “this shouldn’t be an issue—but I want to say again, that if you can’t slip him the sedative, I’m against you moving forward with the second part of the plan.”
I give him a tight-lipped nod. Mulberry looks up again and this time there is no smirk. “Got it,” I say, holding up my hands like a woman being mugged—except there is a silky spool of rope in one of my hands, not the normal victim’s accessory.
Mulberry lets out a soft sigh because, as we all know, I am exhausting. He holds out the earpiece. “Here, put this in.”
I take the tiny device—designed and built by Rebecca. Not only can it transmit information to me but can also capture audio from the surrounding conversation. So Mulberry and Simon will hear everything I hear—probably even more, since it has advanced noise-canceling technology, making it possible to capture conversation that my human hearing won’t pick up.
I slip the shell-shaped device into my right ear. Simon comes around the table, circling me. “I’ll fix your wig so that your ears won’t be visible. But that thing is,” his smile grows wistful, “awesome. Rebecca is a genius.” He’s staring at my ear like it holds the first spacecraft to make it to the moon. “I think she is even better at this kind of thing than Dan,” Simon continues, almost like he’s talking to himself.
Mulberry and I both go very still, picking up on the same thing. Simon never met Dan—as far as we know. From our understanding, he knew him only by reputation. So how could he know how good Dan is at creating hardware? “Really?” Mulberry says, his tone curious. “You think?”
“Yeah,” Simon says, his focus still on my ear. “His last earpiece didn’t have the noise-canceling capability of this one—of course, tech has evolved, but that’s in part because of Rebecca.”
I turn my head and stare at Simon. His eyes meet mine and understanding blooms in his gaze. “You’re wondering why I know about Dan’s hardware skills?”
“I’m not not wondering ,” I answer.
“I was a customer. I figured you guessed that.”
“A customer?” Mulberry asks, similarly in search of clarification.
“Yeah, he sold his designs.” Simon is looking at us like he’s confused about why we are confused.
“When?” I ask.
Simon shrugs. “I’d guess I heard about him, fuck, like ten years ago.”
“So before we met him,” I say.
“He’s been selling zero days since he was a kid,” Simon says. “Or at least the handle Codify has been active since Dan Burke was a kid.” Mulberry and I look at each other. I can’t read what’s in his gaze. He’s not shocked, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t know these details. Dan is one to keep his cards close.
“How do you know Dan Burke is Codify?” I ask Simon.
Simon blinks a few times, seeming surprised by the question. He cocks his head, assessing me. The skin around his eyes tighten. “Who else could it be?”
“I don’t know; I’ve never heard that name before, so seems to me it could be a lot of people.”
Simon’s smile edges toward condescending, but seeing my expression he quickly schools his own. “Syd, you’re not exactly interested in technology.”
Mulberry coughs a laugh. I glare at him. He swallows. “I need water,” he says, coughing again as he leaves for the kitchen.
“Coward,” I mutter at his retreating back. Mulberry coughs another laugh as he turns the corner, disappearing from sight.
I return my gaze to Simon. He’s staring at my ear again. “Rebecca really is amazing.”
Well, that I can’t argue with.