Kyle stepped out of the cab and into the grey London afternoon. His bones ached—not from the meeting with Dr. Vance, but from the weight of everything else. The search for Angelica, the deal with Pemberton and Viktor lurking somewhere in America. The constant, low-grade hum of anxiety that had become his default state.
"I need to reset," Kyle thought to himself.
He looked at his phone. No messages from Cassandra, no calls from Tony. The women were at the hotel, probably napping or watching something on the massive television in the suite.
"If I go back now, I'll just sit there. Staring at the walls lost in my thinking," Kyle muttered to himself.
That wasn't why he had brought them here. This trip was supposed to be a vacation—for them, at least. For him, it was cover. But cover only worked if he maintained the appearance of someone who actually took breaks.
