The flight back to New York was a funeral procession at thirty thousand feet.
The Gulfstream was silent, the hum of the engines sounding like a dirge. I sat in the back of the cabin, the blood-stained locket Adriana had given me pressed against my palm until the metal bit into my skin. I didn't feel the pain. I didn't feel anything except a cold, hollow vacuum where my "Queens Fire" used to be.
Reid was at the small desk, his fingers flying across a laptop screen that was filled with encrypted code and thermal maps of Astoria. He hadn't slept. He hadn't eaten. He looked like a man who was building a gallows, and he was making sure every knot was perfect.
"He's not alone, Maya," Reid said, his voice a low, jagged rasp. "The facial recognition on the diner's security feed—the one he allowed us to see—shows four men in the kitchen. They aren't 'Ouroboros' tacticals. They're 'Cleaners.' Professional assassins who specialize in making buildings disappear."
