John Clark’s office was in a town near New York City that was an hour and a half away from Manhattan’s Grand Central Station. Tourists and visitors avoided the place as there were no pretty streets and cute shops like the next nearby town, Cold Spring, had. This was a ghost village, filled with abandoned houses, and the only prostitute was an old lady over the age of fifty who had already passed away.

“We have arrived.”

Mick parked his car at an old maintenance shop, where the windows were blocked by large wood panels. John was waiting for us, and I followed him inside the office while Mick closed the garage door.

The office was small, so the monitors occupying the entire wall stood out. There were phones for each monitor on a desk with numbered stickers.

I looked at monitor number three, and it was surveilling a street across from a small bookstore in New York. Apparently, a disguised...