A few days later, on a slow night, Don drove toward the Deadly Damsels.
The Mustang rolled low and steady through the street, engine rumbling beneath him. His left arm rested out the open window, air pushing past his fingers as the city slid by in broken light and shadow.
He wore a plain white shirt, sleeves loose at the forearms, a thin silver chain resting against his collarbone. Blue jeans. Brown boots. Aviators sat on his face, reflecting passing streetlamps in brief flashes.
The infotainment display glowed faintly on the dashboard.
Conference call — in progress.
Gary's voice came through the speakers, clean and firm, cutting through the engine noise.
"As it stands, sir, I believe all listed locations require internal sweeps. At the very least, we should deploy miniature droids." A brief pause. "We've maintained exterior monitoring across all sites. Nothing of note has been uncovered."
Don kept his eyes on the road.
