Arthur's stomach did a sick somersault. Everyone's got 'em? Yeah, and everyone'd had landlines, too, hadn't they? And nobody'd ever thought they had to watch their mouths in their own fuckin' homes, not till someone you knew had the fuckin' cops bust in their door or the feds showed up someplace they shouldn't and you got hauled into a lockup; he'd lived that story before. Fuck fuck FUCK, and these things had cameras and microphones, they could be recording right now, they shouldn't even be having this conversation with a phone in his hand—
Arthur slapped the device down on the bar, beside the still-boxed one, yanking his hand away from it as though burned. (He'd rather have shattered the thing beneath his heel, and probably would've done so if it'd been Stoots' phone or Scarlet's. But this was Rob's, and— and he didn't want Rob to storm off in a huff, that was all.)
(The one thing that might scare him more than being tracked down through a too-smart-for-its-own-good phone was Robin sending him away again.)
He sank heavily onto one of the bar stools, raking his fingers through his hair. "How?" he managed. "Safe how? From the satellites? And the... taps? Hackers?!"