“Should I answer it?” the man asked, holding the phone out toward me.

I did not answer him.

The rain beat a steady, heavy rhythm against the fabric of his umbrella.

My throat was dry, tasted of salt and cheap coffee.

I looked at the phone, then at the man holding it.

His fingers were long, dry, and clean, completely unaffected by the storm around us.

“Elena,” Vincenzo said, his voice barely a squeak over the wind.

I kept my eyes on the glowing screen.

*Director Vance.*

The name flashed in white letters against the dark background.

My mind raced through the last six months of my life.

Every report I had filed, every dead drop I had used, every late-night debriefing in the back of unmarked vans.

Vance had personally signed my authorization papers.

He had told me I was the only one who could get close enough to Romano to pull the plug on his entire network.

Now, his name was on the screen of a man who worked with the people trying to kill us.