"Michael." Silas's voice came through dry and precise, but underneath it was something Michael had never heard before. Need.
"Silas." Michael made his voice flat. Not angry. Not eager. Just flat. "I was beginning to think my number had been removed from your system."
"I tried to reach you," Silas lied.
"No," Michael said. "You didn't. I tried to reach you. Three times. The line was dead. The fourth time, I stopped trying."
"I need you to tell me something," Silas said. "And I need you to be precise."
The phone felt heavier than it should have.
Michael held it to his ear, listening to Silas breathe on the other end of the line. That slight static of encrypted international routing. The faint hum of London traffic bleeding through from Silas's end. The sound of a man who had spent thirty years controlling every variable in the room and was now realizing that one of them had moved without his permission.
"You're asking me to be your eyes again," Michael said. Not a question.
