I tap the app, and it opens onto a log-in screen. Two blank boxes for username and password, neither of which I remember. At the bottom of the screen is a key, and I hit it to search my saved passwords, but it’s not there. When Jade logged in that first time, for some reason my phone didn’t save it.

“Shit.”

Nick flips down the visor to check his hair in the mirror. He shoves the strands back in place, poking the ends under the elastic with a finger. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t remember my log-in.” I try my email and the password Jade uses for everything, BeaBax321#, but it doesn’t work. I try the same password with her email, but I get the same result: a shivering screen, a rejection message. I’m locked out. “Dammit.”

“Let’s just go. We’ll see what’s going on when we get there.” Nick pops the visor closed, then gestures to the two-lane road we were just flying down. A long line of traffic snakes in both directions, headlights blinking in a soft drizzle. The clock on the dash turns my body cold: 6:34.

I plug my email in the screen and tap Forgot Password, then toss my cell to Nick. “Watch my inbox, will you? I should be getting a new password any second.” I steer the truck off the grass and poke the bumper back into traffic.

Nick here is a gift from Maxim, as are the two bouncers in the black SUV that had been following us until I hit the brakes, former military trained in all sorts of scary ops who rarely leave his side. Maxim loaned them to me with a toothy grin.

And then he shoved the biggest gift, the best one, into my hands. A moving box crammed to the top with crumpled bills. You wouldn’t believe the amount of counterfeit bills that pass through a strip club. Twenties and hundreds, mostly, most of them passable as real. Go get ’em, kid.

Not the $734,296 this guy demanded, not even close. But along with my $49,000 hopefully enough bills to provide a distraction. It’s now stuffed in the nylon Nike bag under Nick’s feet.

He points me down a mostly empty side street. “Take a right.”

“I know the way. You just watch for the email.”

A minute passes, then another, while I weave my way through the streets as fast as I dare. On a normal day, at a normal hour, it’s a twenty-minute trek from here to my driveway, but this is rush hour, and it’s raining again—two sure-fire ways to make Atlanta traffic grind to a stop.

My phone pings with an incoming email, but with the acoustics of the truck and the tension in the air, it hits me like an explosion. “Is it—”

“Yep.”