MARCUS'S POV
The call came in at 11:43 AM.
His contact's name was Reyes and she did not waste words.
"Room fourteen," she said. "Clearwater Motel, Pioche. White male, late fifties, approximately five-ten, grey hair, heavier than the photos you sent. He went to the vending machine at nine and the office at ten-thirty to extend his stay by another week." A pause. "He's paying cash. He looks like a man who hasn't slept properly in months."
"You're certain."
"I'm always certain," she said, which from Reyes was not arrogance. Just fact.
"Stay on him," Marcus said. "Don't move until you hear from me."
He hung up.
Sat back in his chair, picked up the phone and called Damien.
"He's there," he said, when Damien answered. "Room fourteen. Harold Ashford is in Pioche, Nevada." A pause. "What do you want to do?"
The line was quiet for three seconds.
"Bring him in first," Damien said and ended the call
Marcus looked at the satellite image one more time.
Then he started making calls.
