Hours ago, things had turned for the worse, in that localized war outside of New Haven. Those things, to an extent, had little to do with them. When they got back to their home and business, they would get the full update on the dead and lost. Documents would be updated, and some plans would be shifted around.

Every five to fifteen minutes, Jeanne checked news and cell feeds to see if there had been an attack from zealots or another crisis taking advantage of the distraction. That possibility concerned her more than the death of Tattletale, the swelling of Fallen ranks by way of mind control, seizing most of the survivors, or any other hypothetical scenarios she might imagine.

Kurt had fallen silent, as he checked his information. His screen was a tide of numbers and account balances for several moments. He refreshed a page, then turned his laptop for her to see. With black text on a white page, and the room so dim, it was glaring, and her tired eyes had to adjust to interpret.

“We found him. The thief.”

“If I found him, others might have too,” Kurt said. He stood and closed the laptop. The acknowledgement that they would have to act was left unspoken.

Others. Jeanne knew who they were.

Jeanne stood as well. Laptop closed and placed in a messenger bag, joined with the booklets and papers she’d brought with her in case more showed.

There were no portals. They couldn’t speak a word and request a doorway to any place or alternate earth. The act of getting to the old headquarters was… arduous. The way to the old Cauldron headquarters was to travel to Cote D’Ivoire and use the spare portal there. It was easier to situate themselves in the city.

Besides. The old base had been commandeered.

Kurt had his phone out and at his side, his thumb typing.

“You’re requesting your brothers?”

“The pair. I’ll reach out to several of the employees. It might be overkill to call in a favor.”

“Worthwhile overkill if it helps us deal with him.”

The car was waiting outside. Every other car on the road was a dark shade or dark gray, but her sedan was yellow. She had a weakness for finer touches like that. She preferred to drive, but she acknowledged that it was better if Kurt handled it, for instances like this. Again, the unspoken communication between them had him going straight to the driver’s side.

He peeled out, with no regard to speed limit or the vagaries of traffic.

Kurt spoke, “Friction, plus fifteen, one hundred feet ahead, in five, four, three, two, one.”

She placed the effect of her power. The car turned, wheels skidding. The nose of the vehicle grazed the back bumper of a truck that was slower to make the turn. She knew there wouldn’t be a mark.