first. He worked it out and laid it aside—the pebble Ellie had stopped to take out before Atlas made his move. Beneath the worn foam lining, jammed deep into the narrow toe box, his fingertips brushed cold, tarnished metal.
It wasn’t a detonator. It was too light, too thin.
Vincent pinched the edge and drew it out into the daylight.
A heavy silver oval locket dangled from a broken twist of silver rope chain, swinging gently in the winter sun. The casing was blackened by time, nicked with deep gouges along its rim, and darkened with the unmistakable, indelible stain of high-heat scorching. In the microscopic pits of its melted solder, the chemical ghost of military-grade RDX—a compound used in commercial demolition and underworld car bombs alike—had slept for two decades, waiting for an old working dog’s nose to wake it up.
Atlas relaxed his posture, sitting back on his
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