The job of Alexander Paton was to move on Marcus's word whenever the young boss called it. The claim that the whole play was a secret, even from his own unit, rubbed the detective the wrong way, and it definitely got his gears turning.
"Yeah, I'm serious, Sandy. I can't tell you why we're hunting these two. I wish I could. You'd be as into it as I am," Marcus went on. "But you know how it is in my circle—we keep certain plays quiet, even from the feds. This is one of 'em."
"So I'm guessing Mr. and Mrs. Caborn are high-level targets?" the tall man asked.
Marcus gave a sharp nod.
"I wasn't 100% sure at first," he said, "until I tracked 'em to the coast and watched 'em move. Then I knew. They're back in the city on a suicide mission. We gotta find 'em and shut 'em down before they light the fuse."
"The name rings a bell," the inspector said, thinking back as he took another cigarette from the pack Marcus pushed across the table. He looked around the small, clean apartment that served as Marcus's low-profile base in the city. The kid didn't need much. Even though he ran the streets, he moved like a ghost and preferred staying in spot-less safehouses.
"You heard of him before?" Marcus asked with a cold grin.
"Yeah. Wasn't the guy tied to that Meyer hit in Queens right after the first turf war? Didn't he have links to that shooter they caught in the high-rise—the one who took out the witness?"
Marcus's grin widened.
"Your memory is on point, Sandy," he said. "But forget that, except for the part where he slipped through your fingers. He was a ghost then, and he's a ghost now. And his wife—well—she's the real pro. She was the one who handled the logistics in the Queens job."
"We're looking at a wall. How do we find 'em, Marcus? You got a lead?" Paton asked, getting serious.
"Right now? Nothing. I'm burnt out from the chase," the young boss said. "But I might have a play by tomorrow."
"I'll run some numbers, too," the inspector said. "They know the city; they probably checked into one of those 'no-questions-asked' hotels where the door stays locked as long as the cash is green. There's a dozen of 'em in the West Side, and plenty more in the outskirts."
"I know the ones," Marcus said, resting his jaw on his hand, leaning on the arm of his leather chair. "We gotta track 'em down, or they're gonna cause a bloodbath, Sandy. I'll hit you on the burner. If I get a scent, I'll call you immediately."
Paton looked doubtful.
"If they hit one of those holes where nobody talks, they can stay dark for months," he remarked. "You should've paged us sooner."
"I didn't think they were coming back to the city. I thought they were staying in Paris, but my man on the ground missed the window."
"Well, Joan didn't come in through the main airports or the tunnels. That's for sure," Paton said.
"She probably used a fake ID and slipped through on a private charter. Or what about the docks?"
The detective shook his head.
"I don't think so. The task force is looking for a woman named Beeton for a homicide in the North Side. She looks a lot like Joan. Every port has been under a lens for six weeks because of her."
"Sandy, I don't care about the task force. All I know is she's here, she's with her man, and they're lying low before they pull whatever move they've been planning," Marcus said. "If I wasn't sure this was big, you think I would've chased her all over the coast and played the lovesick kid like I did?" Then, with a cold smirk on his young face, he added: "I bet the lady thinks she's got me in her pocket. Women are a trip, right, Sandy? Thank God I never let myself catch feelings. I've seen what that does to men. It's a disease that gets you killed."
"I only fell once," the detective replied, "and I got the best woman in the world."
"Then you're a lucky man, Sandy. Drink to that. To Mrs. Paton's health."
They clinked glasses, sharing a rare moment of levity, and a few minutes later the officer—the best man in the city for finding people who didn't want to be found—got up and left.
When he was gone, Marcus sat in the silence for a long time.
"I don't think she suspected a thing," he whispered, never knowing she'd gone through his bags while he was drugged. "I played the role, right?" he laughed to himself. "I hope so. She looked shook when I made my move. But she's smart—scary smart. The husband is a joke compared to her."
He stood up and started pacing.
"I gotta find 'em, or—by God—the whole city is gonna burn! I have to move first. I bet they got a whole crew behind 'em," he added, his jaw set tight.
He hit the phone, making short, sharp calls to his team, telling them the Architect was back on the grid. One man, he called Bennett, he told to be at the safehouse by eleven. After his runner brought him a quick meal of cold chicken and a soda, he was slammed with visitors—shadowy men who slipped in and out for quick briefings.
Bennett arrived looking like an ex-Navy SEAL. He carried a heavy, locked leather case. He took off his tactical jacket, sat at the table, and pulled out a stack of files. Marcus sat across from him, scanning and signing off on the papers as Bennett passed them over.
"This is the latest from the girl in Miami regarding the cartel's move on the docks. You remember you sent her down three months ago with a specific mission. She handled it perfectly."
Marcus took the report, which was written in a complex street cipher. He was hooked from the first page. it was a deep dive into the Miami supply chain, written by a young woman who was one of Marcus's best undercover assets. It showed she knew the game better than most veterans.
He finished it, marked it with a red pen, and told his secretary:
"Send a text in Code Four. Bring her back. I need to talk to her. There's more here than what she wrote."
"Got it, Boss," Bennett said. He was a former officer who'd been dishonorably discharged and now used his tactical brains for Marcus. "Next is the Steinberg beef. Our guy hasn't made much progress. Nothing worth worrying about."
"Fine," Marcus grunted, signing it without a look.
He went through five more files, marking them all "M.B." for Marcus Blake.
"Here's the list of the crew we cut from the North Side crew. Weiss is on the list."
"I see," Marcus said. "That's a shame. He didn't know I was the one paying his bills. He did good work finding those ghost stashes. Why'd we cut him?"
"Got the report right here. Sent over from the street leads three days ago."
Marcus took the paper and read the notes:
"Weiss, Karl.—Bad report from the street boss. Unreliable. Too busy hitting the clubs and getting distracted by every girl in a skirt. Recommend cutting him loose before he talks."
"Damn," the young boss muttered, signing the paper that ended the kid's career. "That's wild. There's gotta be more to it. Find out what, Bennett. I liked that kid."
He moved on to a long doc about the tension between the local crews and the out-of-towners. On that table sat the secrets of the entire city's underworld—the moves, the money, and the betrayals that would have paralyzed the feds if they knew Marcus had it all. The world never guessed that this quiet teen was the one the big players trusted, the one who kept the balance of power.
They sat there until three in the morning, Marcus dictating orders to his "lambs" across the city while Bennett took notes to be encrypted and sent out. It was nearly 3:00 AM when Bennett finished his drink and packed up.
"Leave the bag," Marcus said. "Too late to be carrying that across the bridge. It's safer here."
They both laughed. That bag held enough dirt to sink half the city council. Bennett left, and Marcus was alone in the quiet of the night. He lit a cigarette and stood by the window, thinking.
He went back to the bag, used a master key on his chain—the one that opened every lock in his empire—and found the file on Karl Weiss.
"Poor Karl," he said to the empty room. "He don't even know he's out yet. He was a good soldier. Everyone slips up sometimes, but in this game, a girl can get you killed. He's gonna have a hard time finding a new home after this."
He locked the bag, tossed it in the closet, and went to bed. The next morning, Bennett grabbed the bag, and by eleven, Marcus was out at his favorite lounge.
Three days passed. He racked his brain for a way to find the couple from the coast. His mind was a machine, and he had an instinct for the hunt that never failed. He was cold, calculated, and knew how to play people. He never stopped until he got what he wanted.
And he wanted Joan.
On the fourth day, he got a letter from Edris Temperley. He knew the bold, sharp handwriting. It was sent from her family's estate upstate.
"Dear Marcus—You didn't hit me back after my last text. I heard you were out of the country. You back yet? I'm coming to the city with my mom next Friday to hit the shops. We're staying at the usual spot. I'd love to see you and find out if you're hitting the slopes this winter. The crew won't be the same without you. Stay safe. —Edris."
He read it twice over breakfast. He felt bad for ghosting her. He pictured her face, her gray eyes, and her short dark hair. It had been a year since their winter fling. He'd liked her, but he'd cut her off because of the age gap and because he knew she had a thing for a guy her own age.
That winter in the mountains had been the best time of his life, but it was just a memory now—the only time he'd ever felt something real for a woman. But he didn't want to hurt her by dragging her into his world.
He held the letter, looking out at the wet, gray London streets.
"I wonder, Edris," he whispered. "I wonder if you still think about it? If you still remember…?"
He stopped, a sudden thought hitting him like a lightning bolt. A flash of inspiration that set him on fire.
There was a way to find Joan! He had the answer. It would take every ounce of his street smarts and his ability to lie, but he could do it. He understood how people worked.
He grabbed the phone and paged Paton to get over there immediately.