That ought to give anyone listening something to think about. The Atlanta area code was 404. A bit obvious, but she wasn’t in a subtle mood. She was banking that they wouldn’t be either. They’d lost a lot of men at the lake house, and payback was a powerful motivator. She tucked the phone into an air vent and took the stairs to the sidewalk. Down the block she entered a parking garage; from its third level, she had a clear view of the main entrance to the building where she’d left the phone.

She didn’t have long to wait—someone had anticipated them showing up in Atlanta.

A black SUV rolled to a stop in front of the building and sat idling at the curb. Minutes passed. They weren’t storming the building, so Pennsylvania had taught the bastards something.

Good for them.

A back door opened and a man in a Windbreaker and combat boots got out and went into the lobby. There was only one reason to wear a loose-fitting Windbreaker on this still Atlanta morning.

She saw no further movement for five minutes; then two more doors opened and a pair of men walked briskly into the building after their colleague. That left only the driver.

Perfect.

Movement down on the street caught her eye. The green hood of a car nosed to a stop at the mouth of the alley beside the garage. They’d brought backup. That was smart. She couldn’t see how many were inside, but a car in an alley would be infinitely easier to take than an SUV on a sunny street. Christmas had come early.

Jenn crossed the parking garage to the rear stairwell. As she reached for the door, it opened and a man with a gym bag stepped through. She stepped aside, and their eyes met for a moment. He hid it well, but she caught the slight stutter in his stride as his brain recognized her and forgot about walking for a millisecond. He took a step past her and nodded politely, fumbling with the zipper on his gym bag. She snapped her telescoping baton down along her thigh to its full twenty-one inches.