Weeks. Weeks to scrape together the cred, another week to find the asshole, who seemed to have dropped out of the fucking system; he had, actually, but Mike has ways of tracking people.
That's what this is all about.
He had DNA; now he has a name and not much else to go with it. Corbett hadn't had access to PK mainframes and he wasn't feeling like trying to get in, no matter what Mike was willing to pay. He was out of the system, after all. Too many people asking too many uncomfortable questions, waving guns in his face in a manner that was getting extremely uncomfortable. Mike gave him twice the initial asking price. Sometimes you have to go the extra mile or million if you want results.
Which he has. He moves through the club. Not the Chapterhouse; this is dingier and more nameless. Too many people at the Chapterhouse know his face by now. He'd prefer this be as under the radar as possible.
Got to stay one step ahead.
It's all he has now.
Through the endlessly shifting crowd he sees the girl in a far corner; he knows her, knows what she is, though he doesn't think he's used her before. Something about her stands out a little. He thinks he'd remember.
"Need a runner," he says when he gets to her, talking loud enough to be heard over the music and no louder. The lights flashing over her face make her look like something dead and reanimated. She looks like he feels these days. Bag of white powder in his pocket. No, no, no.
He doesn't run. He just keeps moving.