He and Jill had worked, lived, fought, and trained as a team for so long, they could predict each other’s movements. Instinct took care of the rest. They’d never missed having a two-way, because they’d never had one.

Like so much else, that had been Clare’s doing.

They weren’t military. They weren’t law enforcement. They were fugitives who couldn’t predict when trouble would come, or in what form, and unless they planned to wear the tech always, all it’d do was make them lazy.

She’d taught them how to sign instead.

Holden had dropped three units on the kitchen counter.

He didn’t have the luxury of being part of their “secret-club handshake” codes, he’d said. At the very least he needed a way to know what was going on.

Jack had hesitated all the same.

Earpieces blocked sound, dulled situational awareness, and this was the wrong time to learn to compensate for that.

Holden had unraveled thin wires and shown him a tiny earpiece. “There’s no ear fatigue, no sense deprivation,” he’d said. “You don’t even have to use them. Just wear them. Let me hear through you. Let me be eyes behind your back.”

Jack had been curious enough to nudge the piece into place.

Holden hadn’t been wrong.

So here he was now, plugged in, listening to Holden as he narrated progress through the park and found the uniform Jack had left him and the toolbox, and then the maintenance access that led to a towering view.

It felt a lot like listening to the voices in someone else’s head.

Jill stayed quiet, but he didn’t need words to know she was in costume and headed toward the park’s invisible world, the side where delivery trucks and fuel trucks and all the ugly pieces critical to keeping the fantasy alive were shielded from view.

Jack assembled what was left of his gear, placed it in a garbage bag, picked up a stolen broom, and crawled it all out into a night filled with couples and families, bundled-up kids and teenagers in loud, bawdy groups, a crisp cold infused with laughter and color and music, and fragranced by funnel cakes, cotton candy, gun oil, and death.

He left the phone at the head of a snaking line, turned into a staff-only area to gather a cleaning-supply cart, and pulled another burner from the collection.

Hayes answered, less confident than on the first pickup.

“I’m still here,” Jack said. “You still coming?”

“Traffic is bad,” Hayes said. “Forty minutes.”

Holden said, “If the signal’s accurate, more like eight minutes.”

Jack said, “Were you brave enough to come alone?”

“I brought a few friends,” Hayes said. “It has nothing to do with bravery.”

Jack hung up and dropped the phone.

Minutes passed.

Holden said, “Vehicle convoy turning east. Three-minute ETA.”

Jack retrieved the next phone and called again.