The agency kitchen smelled like burnt espresso and somebody’s cinnamon bagel.

Gavin was already there at seven, tie knotted, phone tapping against his leg, tap, tap, tap.

“Whitcombe at ten,” he said.

“The whole suite, six people, the good cups, the deck on the wall, no laptops clicking.”

“I’ve run it in my head four times.”

“Run it five.” He set his cup down without drinking.

“And at noon we have visitors.

Anonymous.