The safehouse was located on the third floor of an unassuming brick warehouse in Brooklyn's industrial waterfront district, masquerading as a private fine-art conservation studio. The air smelled of turpentine, linseed oil, and old paper. When Agent Cross opened the heavy iron fire door, Maya stepped inside to find Celeste Hale already waiting, seated at a long drafting table illuminated by halogen work lamps. Across the table lay dozens of…
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