Ahead of him, the fish truck coughed into motion, turning left out of the alley and into the jerky flow of traffic redirected from Station Way. Aristide stomped on the accelerator and trundled after them—the steel-toed boots of his disguise made him clumsy.

A cab tried to cut him off but he leaned into the horn and pushed past, keeping close to the fish truck’s bumper. Angry drivers beeped and made rude gestures. He gave a few back, and almost rear-ended Tabby and Jules. Stopped for a moment, he imagined Chido hidden behind those canvas flaps, wondered if he was cold. Hoped the crates of seafood would hide Cyril from at least a cursory search.

If they got Cyril into the truck at all.

They were coming up on it, now: the spot they’d earmarked as the best bet for a clean getaway. The intersection of Shaw and Purlieu, where DeCarr split off just before the light. If luck favored them—Aristide sent a prayer up to the Queen—Chido and Tabby could do what they needed, and the vans would pull off Purlieu and head south toward Harbor Terrace. Tabby knew a man who ran a scrap depot at the bottom of Ionidous where they could pull in, change plates, and swap sensitive cargo. Then she and Chido and Jules would head back to wherever they needed to be, and Aristide would take the coastal highway northeast and out of town.

Easy. Simple. He felt like he might vomit.

Traffic jerked forward, stopped. Jerked forward. Stopped. The fish truck came level with DeCarr and inched forward. Aristide held off, despite honking behind him. If they needed to reverse to make the turn, he’d give them room.

Any moment the cars would come to a standstill. Surely. Maybe even … now.

They sat for half a breath before Chido jumped down through the flaps of canvas, gun already drawn, silencer heavy on the barrel. Chido disappeared around the front of the fish truck and Aristide realized he was desperate to draw breath: He hadn’t in some time.

He couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t hear anything. All he could do was wait.

Cyril was surprised they let him shave himself. But the razor was a safety blade, and Dorfner stood behind him to keep watch.

“Don’t look much better,” the guard told him, when he’d rinsed away the soap.

“I do what I can,” said Cyril. “And whatever my lawyer asks me to.”

“I would, too, let me tell you. She looks like she’d stomp any toe you put out of line.”

“Which is why all of mine have stayed where they’re supposed to. Shall we?”