Boston was their destination. Liliana had just had a vision.

Nine a.m. that morning, Declan Lynch had called to discuss an urgent matter. I would prefer to have this conversation on the most secure line possible, he murmured. It requires the utmost discretion. Coincidentally, she had told him, she was in the Boston area—did he want to meet up in person? She had been intensely grateful that she’d been the one to call him about Ronan Lynch earlier that month. Now he was late.

“Ms. Farooq-Lane?”

Declan Lynch stood by the table. He looked like his brother Ronan, but with the edges sanded off, the memorable bits deleted. He had neat, civilized dress slacks; a neat, civilized wool sweater; neat, civilized facial hair; very nice shoes. There wasn’t a stitch that was out of place in this upscale café full of talkative Tufts students and drowsy medical residents.

“I didn’t see you come in,” she said.

“I came in the back.” She saw him check his surroundings, but only because she was watching him closely. He was very good. Long practice with paranoia. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had to be sure I wasn’t followed.”

She couldn’t really believe it. Here he was. Liliana’s vision had promised it, but the visions were always things for the Moderators to interpret, not her, and they were always for killing Zeds, not attempting anything more nuanced. “Of course. Can I get you a coffee?”

“We should be brief,” Declan said by way of reply. His voice was vague, nasal; he sounded as if he were announcing a meeting agenda. “Unwise to push our luck.”

Eight minutes was how long it took Declan Lynch to say his piece.

“I love my brother,” Declan said. “So know that when I say this next part I’m saying it from a place of fondness: Ronan’s a follower. He’s always needed a hero to follow. When he was a kid, he idolized my father. When he was in school, he idolized his best friend. Now he’s obviously idolizing this Bryde. He doesn’t get ideas on his own. That sounds bad. Remember I said I loved him. I mean it in the best way. I mean it this way: He’s not your problem. Take away Bryde, and Ronan’s just the same as he always was, a kid who’s going to go back to Virginia to play with cars and mud and cowshit. Who was running the show when you saw them together? It was Bryde, wasn’t it? Not my brother. Not Jordan Hennessy. Whose name has been whispered subversively for weeks? Bryde’s.”

She tilted her chin. “We’re in agreement. Bryde’s the target.”

“Are we in agreement? Because I want to be sure you know why I’m sitting at this table.”