The GPS showed we were forty miles outside the Portland city limits.

The highway was completely empty.

Then, my dashboard console flashed.

An incoming call on my secure line.

The caller ID was blocked.

Only three people had this number.

Marco was behind me.

Miller was waiting in Portland.

I pressed the button on the steering wheel to answer.

“Speak,” I said.

A voice I did not recognize came through the speakers.

It was low, distorted by a digital scrambler.

“You have the drive,” the voice said.

“Turn around, Ryker.”

“Who is this?” I asked, my grip tightening on the wheel.

“We have the perimeter of the Portland safe house,” the voice said.

“Miller won’t be meeting you.”

The call ended with a sharp click.

The screen went black.

I looked at the rearview mirror.

Marco’s headlights were still there, cutting through the fog.

But ahead of us, the thick gray mist swallowed the road.

I reached for my radio.

“Marco,” I said.

“We have a problem.”

Before he could answer, a bright light flared in the fog ahead.

It was not a streetlamp.