Blake’s in his private quarters on the upper floor of the Sea-Tac safe house, the one on South 164th Street. Box the troll is standing watch outside the door, his asymmetrical head ducked forward but still brushing against the ceiling. He doesn’t ask me my business or do the "friend-or-foe" crap; he just reaches behind him and opens the door when he sees me coming down the hall. I jander on past him, flipping him a mock salute, then I’m into one of Blake’s private residences.