Harry Bormstone lay back on his bed, laptop on his lap, phone and booze at hand. It took him a couple of hours, but he was finally able to hack his way into a national credit database. The information was sorted by state, so his next step was exercise extreme patience and search state by state for a driver license under the name 'Markus Ritmann'.

His phone buzzed with a text while he waited for the search results from Florida. He didn't expect a match, though. Askaroth never recruited in that area. The southern states were controlled by his cousin Belhazam, and those folks didn't appreciate their relatives stepping on their toes.

The text was from Mark Holster. The boy was internet-savvy, and somehow he'd found that one Markus Ritmann had flown that afternoon from Detroit to New York.

"New York?" Harry repeated.

It was unlikely that one of Askaroth's runts would leave such a straight open trace to his hideaway. Even if such a big city was actually the perfect place to stay low. Harry grunted. His gut told him Askaroth would never risk hiding such a valuable object in the Big Apple. Bit cities were always messy, and the only mess Askaroth liked was the ones he himself caused. No. Askaroth had to be keeping it in a place he could control.

No matches in Florida, as he expected. He hesitated before starting a new search. New York. East Coast. Maybe... He picked California and set the laptop aside, knowing the search would take a couple of minutes.

He would've liked to sleep. He was exhausted, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw again the Shelter full of blood and dead bodies. And he saw again his big brother, waiting for him to die-after giving Harry what little information he had to try to deal with the disaster.

Harry drank a long gulp, trying to blur those hideous images in his mind. A soft beep from the computer caught his attention. He pulled it closer and his exhaustion receded with a simple glance at the screen. One Markus Ritmann, Danish, had settled in San Francisco ten years ago.

"Gotcha, son of a bitch," Harry murmured, wishing he could feel at least a little happy.

He knew the address was bound to be a fake. But now he had a city to start tracking the man down. And his picture.