Our relief was short-lived. We knew we couldn't go home. We headed for the safe house, needing to regroup, to process our narrow escape. But as we turned down the alley, we saw it.
The back window we used was smashed. The door hung slightly ajar.
Leo pulled me behind a dumpster. We watched, hearts pounding, as two men in dark suits—not the same ones from before, these looked harder, more professional—exited the store. One of them was on a phone. "Place is clean. Just kid's junk. No, no sign of the documents. Vega won't be happy."
They knew about the safe house. They had trashed it. Our sanctuary was violated. Everything we'd left there—Leo's spare laptop charger, some snacks, a blanket—was probably now being sifted through by Vega's men. We were rats with nowhere to run.