The midnight air outside St. Jude’s Hospital did not blow; it stagnated, thick with a cold, clinging mist that smelled faintly of coal smoke, wet limestone, and the distant, briny breath of the East River. Gabriel J. Hawkins stepped out of the cab, his fingers automatically adjusting the heavy wool collar of his immaculate charcoal overcoat. He did not look up at the towering gothic arches of the medical center, nor at the modern glass pavilion that had been aggressively grafted onto its historic stone flank. Instead, his silver-blue eyes swept the dark asphalt, measuring the distance between the curb and the security perimeter, tracking the faint, greasy reflection of the streetlamps on the wet pavement.

"Ten thousand dollars is a magnificent sum, Gabriel," Miguel Scott said quietly, his boots crunching softly on the street grit as he stepped up beside him. He kept his hands buried deep in his pockets, his broad shoulders hunched slightly against the damp chill that seemed to rise directly from the subterranean concrete. "But it doesn't buy a pass past a private-wing reception desk if the name on the ledger doesn't exist. We are hunting a ghost with a blank check."