Jonathan keyed the mike on his portable radio. “Go ahead.” They were only two hours into their three-hour drive. He sat in the shotgun seat as always, and he turned the volume up so that Boxers could listen in. “ICIS is beginning to light up about our friends,” she said. “Graham is going to be transferred to a foster home in the next half hour, forty-five minutes.” “Do you have specifics?” Jonathan asked. If they could get a name and an address, they could lie in wait and grab the boy as he arrived at the foster home. Typically, that was the simplest kind of snatch, when the parties thought they were beyond any danger. Venice relayed the name of the foster family—Markham, in Lambertville—and the address. Jonathan wrote it down on the pad that always resided in the pouch pocket on his right thigh. “And the girl? Jolaine?” “That’s a little more interesting,” Venice said. “She’s scheduled to be transferred from her current location in the adult detention center in Lambertville to a federal facility in Chicago.”
