“We’ve got a problem,” I say. “There’s biometric security here.” “As expected,” Thorne’s voice cuts in. “Check your right pocket.” I pat down the pocket of my black tactical pants and pull out what looks like a thin film. “What am I looking at?” I ask. “Synthetic fingerprint. Lazlo created it from a champagne flute Blackwell used at the charity auction.” My eyes widen. “You guys are terrifying.” “Thank you,” four voices respond simultaneously.
