Helene laughed without humor. “Vixi Rafi doesn’t get tired. Vixi Rafi is tired. That’s what makes them dangerous.”

A shadow detached itself from the third balcony.

“Or,” countered Agent Marcus Cole, “they’re tired. Running alone for a decade. Maybe they want out.”

Vixi Rafi was a girl. Fourteen years old, maybe. Pale, dark eyes that had seen too much. Her hands were stained with ink and something darker.