The drive from Boston General Hospital to the financial district was usually a twenty-minute crawl through aggressive traffic. Today, it felt like a funeral procession.

Harper gripped the steering wheel of her battered Ford pickup, her knuckles white, her eyes darting anxiously to the passenger se

Julian Thorne rubbed his temples, leaning back against the plush leather interior of the town car as it sped through the rain-slicked streets of Boston. His head was pounding with a dull, rhythmic ache.

"Sir, we should be at the residence in five minutes," his driver, Thomas, called back through t

"Are you absolutely sure you should be out of bed?"

Harper Quinn’s voice cut through the rhythmic, mechanical hum of the large-format printer in the corner of her cramped spare bedroom.

Clara Vance didn’t look up from the sprawling architectural blueprint pinned to the makeshift drafting table.