The FBI safe house in Queens looked like every other suburban ranch home on the block. Beige siding, small front yard, basketball hoop in the driveway. Perfect camouflage for the kind of conversations that could never happen in official government buildings.
"You sure about this?" Marcus asked as we walked up the driveway at 2 AM. "Meeting with federal agents forty-eight hours after they were hunting us?"
"Things change," I said. "Mass murder has a way of reshuffling priorities."
Agent Williams met us at the door, looking like she hadn't slept since the UN bombing. Her usually perfect suit was wrinkled, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
"Dr. Hunter, Mr. Kane. Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for not arresting us on sight."
"Current circumstances require... flexibility in our approach." She led us through a living room that had been converted into a command center. Laptops, surveillance equipment, and evidence boards covered every surface. "Coffee?"
