“Diversion?” Sydney suggested. “A false trail to stall us.”

“Maybe,” I acknowledged.

As I contemplated, the biker Luca had referred to as Frank walked to a nearby table with an open laptop. He sat down, his fingers running across the keys, before grunting, “What’s the address, Tommy?”

The male holding the phone repeated the question into the receiver. The caller rattled off an address. Tommy relayed it back to Frank whose fingers flew across the keyboard.

Both Ever and I walked to stand behind Frank. His spine tensed at our approach, but he didn’t take his attention away from the monitor. Placing a finger on the screen, he muttered, “Here.”...