It was a small, unmarked warehouse near the industrial park by the airport.

A tactical safe house used by my agency for off-the-grid operations.

No one knew about it except my handler and me.

I pulled onto the interstate, the grey clouds hanging low over the Rocky Mountains.

I dialed a number on my encrypted line.

The phone rang twice.

A man’s deep voice answered.

“Talk to me, Evelyn,” my handler, Marcus, said.

“I need a full run on a name,” I said.

“Go ahead,” Marcus said.

“Vanessa Vale,” I said, watching the highway signs flash past.

“And I need every financial transaction linked to Grant Carlisle for the last six months.”

“Are you at the estate?” Marcus asked.

“No,” I said. “I am heading to the nest.”

“Be careful, Evelyn,” Marcus said. “If Vanessa Vale is who I think she is, you aren’t safe in Denver.”

I hung up the phone.

The dashboard clock flickered, showing the time.

It was three in the afternoon.

The sky was turning a darker shade of grey.

I pressed my foot down on the accelerator.