Not a chance. Guy told me what I’d be looking for, and that was it. Even my reporter tricks didn’t get more out of him. He trusted his gang, but never liked to test that unnecessarily. He made the plans, and we carried out our end. To most, like Jaz, this was the perfect arrangement—minimal responsibilities for maximum reward. But it wasn’t terribly helpful when you were a spy, and the gang you’d just infiltrated was making plans to rob—and possibly torture—the employee of the man you worked for.

I had a responsibility to tell Benicio. Yet I had time to consider the matter on the cab ride to my apartment, and I began to wonder whether informing Benicio really was the obvious choice.

If, as I believed, Benicio hadn’t orchestrated the attack on Jaz and Sonny, then he’d have no idea who this employee might be. What if he overreacted? Did I want to see Jaz, Guy, Sonny and the others arrested and possibly tortured because of a rogue Cabal agent?

What if I was wrong about Benicio’s involvement? In that case, might he not set a trap for the gang and end up with the same outcome as scenario one: everyone taken into Cabal custody? The Cabals were known for torturing those who withheld information. It might not even get that far—an “accident” while taking them into custody would be a convenient way to get rid of an inconvenient problem.

If I feared the Cabal’s reaction, I should call Lucas. Yet if I did, with no proof that his father was about to do anything wrong, would I be crying wolf? Make matters worse?

What I really needed was a sounding board. Someone whose opinion I trusted, someone with no allegiance either way. As much as I hated to admit it, I wanted to talk to Karl. But at the thought of asking for his help, I shuddered.

If he was at the apartment, I’d tell him what was happening. Then, if he chose to offer advice—and I couldn’t imagine Karl not throwing in his two cents—I’d listen.

He wasn’t at the apartment.

I headed for the shower, hoping a shot of cold water would clear my thoughts.

I CAME OUT of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, and nearly smacked into Karl. Of course, I didn’t know it was Karl at first—my gaze down, thoughts elsewhere, walking out of the bathroom to find a man standing there. I yelped and stumbled back, heart in my throat.

“Goddamn it, Karl—”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Great. Try the buzzer in the lobby. Or, better yet, the phone to let me know you’re coming over.”

“I rang the buzzer. You didn’t answer.”

“Which gives you the right to break in?”

“I need to talk to you. Get something on.”