Anton didn’t notice or didn’t care. He cupped a hand around his ear and leaned forward a bit. “Sorry, what was that?”

Paul’s face . . . it didn’t relax, but it looked reasonably human again. At least for the moment. “Why did you bring her?” he asked, his tone cold. Clipped.

“So glad you asked,” Anton replied. “Faye works at the new place where they perform the transfusions. She has access to the client database, where the blood is stored, everything.”

No, I don’t, Ellie wanted to scream. Why was Anton feeding him this complete and utter bullshit?

Paul said, “What about his donors?”

Anton’s smile was like a fist. “You ready to have a serious talk?”

Paul said nothing. They stared at each other in a way that reminded Ellie of those old Clint Eastwood Westerns, two gunslingers measuring each other up. Only Anton’s head was in a sniper scope, Anton acting like he’d been in such a position before, no big deal.

Paul eased himself off the car. Was he leaving?

No. He motioned for Anton to join him. Anton straightened and followed Paul into the plant. As Ellie watched the two of them disappear somewhere in the shadows, she rolled up the window, the BMW motor purring softly through her seat.

It was risky, the idea she had in mind. She could waste time debating it in her head or she could listen to her gut instincts. She went with her gut.

Ellie grabbed a fresh burner. As she dialed Roland’s number, she turned on the radio, adjusting the volume so it was just loud enough to drown out the sound of her voice.

Roland picked up. Ellie didn’t realize how dry and tight her throat felt until she spoke.

“It’s me. Don’t speak—just listen.”

She gave Roland a quick rundown of where she was and what had happened. He gave her instructions, and an address where she was to meet him as soon as she could. The call lasted less than a minute, no way to trace it. She removed the SIM card and battery from the burner to prevent the signal from being traced anyway. Both components went into her pocket, along with the burner. Now the backpack.

From behind the tinted windows, she made a careful study of its contents while keeping a watchful eye on the front window. Anton could come back at any moment.

The leather planner was something called “The Best Self Journal.” In addition to having an area where you could list your appointments, the planner had areas for goals, daily targets, morning and evening gratitude lists. It would have made an interesting read if Anton had written in English instead of Russian. The manila folder contained sheet after sheet of commercial properties available for sale all over California. Real estate listings, she thought. She saw something called an MLS number, and while she didn’t know what that was, the rest was easy enough to read—costs per square foot, amenities, detailed descriptions and pictures of interiors and exteriors—everything a potential buyer would need to know.