Nick brushed a crumb from his front, unperturbed. “You mind if I make some coffee? I’ve been dying for a cup the last three months.”

“Sure. Whatever,” I said, glad he wasn’t insulted by Ivy’s mistrust. I was. Here he came up with a great plan, and Ivy didn’t like it because she didn’t think of it first. “The coffee is in the fridge,” I added as I followed Ivy into the hallway.

“What is your problem?” I said even before I reached her. “He’s just some guy with sticky fingers. And he’s right. Convincing the FIB to go after Trent is a heck of a lot safer than trying to get the I.S. to help me.”

I couldn’t see the color of Ivy’s eyes in the dim light. It was getting dark outside, and the hallway was an uncomfortable black with her in it. “Rachel, this isn’t a raid on the local vamp hangout,” she said. “It’s an attempt to bring down one of the city’s most powerful citizens. One wrong word out of Nick and you’ll be dead.”

My gut clenched at the reminder. I took a breath, then slowly let it out. “Keep talking.”

“I know Nick wants to help,” she said. “He wouldn’t be human if he didn’t want to repay you somehow for helping him escape. But he’s going to get hurt.”

I said nothing, knowing she was right. We were professionals and he wasn’t. I’d have to get him out of the way somehow. “What do you suggest?” I asked, and her tension eased.

“Why don’t you take him up and see if those clothes in the belfry fit him while I book a seat on that plane?” she asked. “What flight did you say it was?”

I tucked a stray curl behind my ear. “Why? All we need to know is when it leaves.”

“We might need more time. It’s going to be close as it is. Most airlines will hold a plane if you tell them you have daylight restrictions. They blame it on the weather or a small maintenance issue. They won’t take off until the sun isn’t shining at 38,000 feet.”

Daylight restrictions? That explained a lot. “Last flight to L.A. before midnight,” I said.

Ivy’s face grew intent as she fell into what I remembered as her “planning mode.” “Jenks and I will go to the FIB and explain everything,” she said in a preoccupied voice. “You can meet us there for the actual take.”

“Whoa, wait a minute. I’m going to the FIB. It’s my run.”

Her frown was obvious in the dark of the hallway, and I stepped back, uncomfortable. “It’s still the FIB,” she said dryly. “Safer, yes. But they might tag you for the prestige of nailing a runner the I.S. couldn’t. Some of those guys would love to kill a witch, and you know it.”

I felt ill. “Okay,” I agreed slowly, my mouth starting to water at the sound of gurgling coffee. “You’re right. I’ll stay out of it until you’ve told the FIB what we’re doing.”