She was surprised to find the place so busy at three o’clock; then again, it was Friday. A pair of private security guards carrying ominous-looking Shockwave rifles, which fired nonlethal electrified rounds, manned the front door and watched the patrons to make sure no one got stuck with a needle.

The sight of the guards didn’t disturb her. Like everyone who lived in LA, she had gotten used to seeing them in bars, restaurants, malls, hospitals, airports—everywhere, even libraries. Still, she couldn’t escape the reality that she and everyone else in California were now living in a new version of the Wild West—only cowboys now drove cars and carried futuristic-looking shotguns and pistols.

Roland Bauer sat in his usual spot in the back, at the far end of the long bar, watching football highlights on ESPN on the wall-mounted TV directly across from him. He didn’t look at her as she approached, and she didn’t look at him.

What she did look at was what he was drinking: a bottle of Molson. A bottled beer meant she hadn’t been followed, that it was safe to approach.

Anton’s men had followed her a lot in the beginning, during those first few months when she had started working for him as a stickman. He’d had her thoroughly vetted, and while the backstory of Faye Simpson had added up, as Police Commissioner Kelly had promised her, repeatedly, that it would, it didn’t mean Anton trusted her. So he put people on her, to watch as she went about sticking people, finding out if they were carriers. Crowded places that served booze—bars, nightclubs, and concerts—these places had been her hunting grounds because, Anton had explained, they were the safest, the people there often so drunk or on their way to it that they didn’t feel the needle sting from a sticker. She focused on the fat ones. They hardly, if ever, even knew they’d been pricked.

Faye Simpson had collected samples without any incident, and she had discovered two carriers. The pair were undercover federal agents. Roland had supplied her with the same sticker devices Anton used, which proved they were actual carriers. She turned the devices, along with the carriers’ names and addresses, over to Anton.

Roland was still lying in wait for the moment Anton would go after them. When Anton did, the agents, tagged with special biologically implanted GPS trackers, would, hopefully, lead them to the one thing no one in law enforcement had, so far, managed to find: a blood farm.

Ellie slid into the seat beside Roland and, looking inside her purse, made sure her Enigma Black phone was tucked inside the special Faraday pouch woven into a side pocket. The pouch blocked RFID and cell signals, so she and Roland could talk privately without Anton or anyone in his crew eavesdropping.

Roland kept his attention on the highlights as he spoke. “Anton’s promoting you.”

Ellie read the bar menu. “To what?”

“He’s found a carrier, and he wants you to help collect him.”