“Absolution,” the man said. “I know that you exact a tribute from those who do a certain kind of business in this city. I have done that kind of business, and I have not paid you that tribute. I offer this information as an alternative payment.”

“What makes you think I would accept information in lieu of cash?”

“I believe that you will find this information more valuable. It concerns the brother of Vincente Carpio.”

“So, tell me,” Cormack said.

“Not on the phone. I will be at the far southern end of the Conley Terminal facility at eleven o’clock this morning, just across from Fort Independence. If you are interested, you will meet me there, alone. If you are not there, you will not hear from me again.”

“That’s a secure facility,” Cormack pointed out. “How do you intend to gain access?”

“I have my ways,” the man said. The line went dead.

Cormack was unsure exactly what to make of the call. His instincts had been honed over forty years of illicit activity, and they had kept him alive against all odds through that time. He could tell that the man on the call had been serious, and should be taken seriously. But he also knew it would be foolish to accede to a request for a meeting like this one; for all he knew, the man could be setting him up for T’phong Soh. For some reason, though, he didn’t think he was.

He stared at his phone, debating whether to dial the number he had in his head. She had asked him to stay out of everything going on, but he simply couldn’t. He scrolled through his recent calls list, found hers, and dialed.

Kit was in Warden Stevens’s office, going through the protocols for Vincente Carpio’s transfer one last time. Her head was buzzing, and she was having trouble concentrating. She’d had almost no sleep, and her exhaustion made her feel disassociated from everything around her. She’d lain down on a cot at around three o’clock that morning and closed her eyes for a bit. Sleep lasted only for a brief period, and it was punctuated by a series of vivid, disturbing dreams.