Garrison

The leather upholstery of the armored Mercedes van absorbed the vibrations of the West Side Highway as we hurtled south through the pre-dawn mist.

Outside the reinforced glass, Manhattan blurred into slick asphalt and yellow sodium lights, completely indifferent to the countdown ticking inside the van.

I sat with my back perfectly straight, my fingers resting flat against the sleek black laptop on the console. The crisp fabric of my fresh dress shirt pressed against the raw ache of my bandaged shoulder, a dull reminder of the Hamburg warehouse.

But the physical sting didn’t matter anymore.

The psychological cage was gone. The fake DNA profiles were nothing but a...