Greyson
According to the correspondence I had with the auction site, Cecilia wouldn’t be given to the highest bidder for forty-eight hours post–closing bid. As I drove my rental car toward South Boston, I reminded myself that I had time to spare.
I’d been hired by Maxwell Tiller. If I handed Cecilia over, I’d get a payday and the promise of more. If I took her to her family, she’d be safe and I’d be a wanted man. No matter my decision, I couldn’t deny the sense of urgency pushing me forward.
I had picked up two burner phones in an airport shop. I’d be giving Josie a call at The Wasteland later. I’d also secured multiple remote hideouts for the next week in the wilderness of New Hampshire. It was better than staying in Boston while I figured out the next move.
The malware pinpointed the location where the email originated. That didn’t mean it was where Cecilia was being held. Hell, the email could have been sent from a Starbucks.
It hadn’t.