The rain didn't stop. It battered the city with a fury that seemed almost personal, a cascade of relentless drops that hammered against windows and flooded gutters. In the small hours of the morning, when shadows were deepest, Max sat in his cramped office, the neon light from the sign outside bleeding through the blinds, casting lurid stripes across his desk.
The phone rang—a shrill, insistent sound that sliced through the rhythmic drumming of the rain. Max snatched it up, his voice gravelly from lack of sleep. "Hartwell."
"It's Loomis," the voice on the other end was clipped, tense. "We need to meet. Now."
Max's pulse quickened. "Where?"
"The old Fairfax building. It's empty. No chance of eavesdroppers."
