Chapter Three
Liis
I stepped out of my office and back into the hallway.
The CI break room was two turns away, past the analyst pod where newer recruits clustered.
Inside, the machines were already working through the morning rush, their low gurgle undercut by the murmur of half-awake conversations.
Someone had left a box of donuts on the counter; the chocolate ones, as usual, were already gone.
“Liis,” a voice said behind me. “You’re here even earlier than usual.”
I turned to see Marisol leaning against the counter, mug in hand. She wore her usual neat blazer and tailored slacks, her dark hair twisted up, eyes already alert. She’d been at HQ for three years and went by Sol, which amused me more than I ever told her.
“So are you, and you’re usually dragging in at ten past.”
“Eight a.m. starts are a personal attack,” she said, working to keep her eyes open.
“You chose counterintelligence,” I said. “Early briefings are in the fine print.”
I poured coffee, black. Sugar and creamer took too long, and if the caffeine was going in, it may as well hurt.
“Word is Vargas wants updates from everyone who’s touched the case in the last week,” Marisol said, keeping her voice just above a whisper.
“Makes sense to me. This one is moving fast.”
“Accurate.” Marisol lifted her mug. “At least Vargas listens. I’ll take that over someone who talks just to hear their own voice. Like…” she trailed.
“Probably a good idea not to finish that sentence.” I didn’t know who she was about to implicate, but odds were good they worked within twenty feet of my office.
We fell into step on the way to the briefing room, coffee in hand. Conference B-314 sat near the center of the floor, behind another secure door. A small screen beside the entrance listed the schedule: 0800–0900, CI Division Intel Briefing; Host: Section Chief E. Vargas.
Inside, the room looked like every high-level conference room I’d ever seen, only with slightly better chairs.
Long table, seats on both sides, wall screens at the front displaying the FBI seal and a simple title slide for the case we were about to discuss.
A speakerphone unit sat in the center of the table, already linked to a couple of field offices calling in.
The far wall held a whiteboard covered in diagrams and names from earlier briefings.
People filtered in steadily: analysts, agents, one legal liaison, a representative from HQ Intel Branch. I recognized most of them. The lead case agent from the New York field office appeared on the main screen via secure video, adjusting his camera and pretending he wasn’t checking his hair.
At 7:59, the room quieted without anyone requesting it. That was Vargas’s effect.
She entered from the side door with a folder in hand, dark suit sharp, hair pulled back in a low bun.
Elena Vargas was in her late forties, compact, and carried herself with the unhurried confidence of someone who had long ago decided she didn’t need to raise her voice to be obeyed.
Her eyes swept the room once, noting faces, open laptops, who was still fiddling with their phone.
Then she set the folder on the table, took her seat at the head, and nodded.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s start.”
The lead analyst on the case walked us through the overnight summary: data pulls, new signals traffic, a financial transfer flagged from Tokyo to a shell entity in northern Delaware.
Graphics appeared on the screen as he spoke, lines connecting names and companies.
It was all familiar, but familiar in the way a shifting puzzle was—nothing stayed static for long.
When she finished, Vargas leaned back slightly, gaze moving around the table.
“Questions first,” she said. “Then I want assessments. No one’s here to be decorative.”
A few hands went up. The legal liaison asked about FISA implications. New York’s agent wanted clarification on how a new name tied back to their primary subject. Marisol chimed in on the social media analysis their team had run, flagging a cluster of interactions we hadn’t expected to see.
Vargas listened, eyes hooded in the way that meant she was turning every word over in her mind.
Then her gaze landed on me.
“Lindy,” she said. “What’s your current read on Osaka Systems’s actual intent here? Assume the financial link holds up. Are we looking at classic corporate espionage or something closer to state direction?”
Every head near me turned a half degree in my direction. I took a sip of coffee, set the mug down, and folded my hands on the table.
“Based on the last week of traffic and the pattern of transfers,” I said, “I’d say we’re in a hybrid space.
Osaka Systems has enough autonomy to pursue its own economic interests, but the timing and routing suggest at least tacit approval from higher up the chain.
The lack of compartmentalization in their communications is telling. ”
“How so?” Vargas asked.
“If they were entirely company-driven,” I said, “I’d expect more insulation around their U.S. target and more effort to disguise origin points. Right now, they’re sloppy in ways that don’t track with their known internal controls. Sloppy often means someone above them thinks there’s a safety net.”
“So you’re leaning toward state involvement,” she said.
“I’m leaning toward state tolerance,” I replied. “Someone has signaled this isn’t a priority to hide, which piques my interest. When they don’t bother hiding, it’s usually because they’re confident we’re too busy to care. Or too fragmented.”
A few people around the table nodded. Vargas’s mouth tipped toward what might have been the start of an approving smile.
“Where do you see their leverage point?” she asked. “If you had to pick one vulnerability right now.”
“The shell in northern Delaware,” I said. “If we can map actual human control rather than just signatures, we might find the interface between the corporate and state actors. That’s where they tend to misstep.”
“Good,” she said. “Flag that for Intel and Legal. I want options on my desk by tomorrow.”
The questions moved on to another analyst, then to the New York agent on the screen, then to the Intel Branch representative. I listened, took notes, asked one clarifying question about a timeline. The hour passed in its usual rhythm of data and inference, operational concerns and analytic hedging.
At 8:58, Vargas closed her folder.
“All right,” she said. “You know your assignments. If anyone is confused, now is the time to admit it.”
No one spoke.
“Then go do your jobs,” she said. “We’ll reconvene when something changes.”
Chairs scraped back. People gathered their laptops, files, and half-empty cups and began to trickle out in ones and twos. Marisol gave me a quick look that said she’d circle back later, then slipped out behind another analyst. I was halfway to the door when Vargas’s voice stopped me.
“Lindy. A moment.”
I turned back. She remained seated, hand resting lightly on the folder.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She waited until the last of the others had left and the door had shut before speaking.
“I want you to take a deeper pass on Osaka’s language traffic from the last month.
Not just translation. I want tone, implied hierarchies, any shifts in register that suggest new players.
You know their linguistic fingerprints better than anyone here. ”
“I can do that,” I said. This was why I’d left the sun and ocean for glass and concrete. Work like this. “What’s our timeline?”
“Preliminary impressions by end of day,” she said. “Full product in forty-eight hours. And I’d like you to coordinate with Intel on that vulnerability you mentioned. Half the battle in CI is convincing people to take a threat seriously before it’s punching you in the face.”
“Understood.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Once, then again after a brief pause. I kept my hands where they were.
Vargas’s eyes flicked down, noting the vibration, then returned to my face without comment.
“Also,” she said, “if this escalates, we may need someone who can brief up the chain without sugarcoating. You’re on my short list. Try not to be flattered.”
“That’s reassuring,” I said, because she tolerated exactly that level of dry response and no more.
Something like amusement crossed her features. “Get started. And tell Maddox I’m still not signing off on his fantasy of poaching you for Criminal.”
“I’ll let him down gently,” I said.
She nodded, effectively dismissing me.
Once I stepped back into the hall, I pulled my phone from my pocket.
Two missed calls from Thomas. No text, which was unusual. If he wanted to complain about paperwork or share some dark joke about bureaucracy, he usually texted first.
My thumb hovered over his name. Before I could tap it, the phone buzzed in my hand again—Thomas, calling for a third time.
I frowned and silenced it, the reflexive part of me still unwilling to take a call in the middle of the hallway where half of CI could watch my face for tells. I started toward my office, intending to call him back from behind a closed door.
“Liis!”
I turned at the sound of my name.
Marisol was moving toward me at a near-run, face stripped of its usual lightness. She clutched her phone so tightly her knuckles blanched.
My stomach went cold before she even spoke.
“There’s been an incident at Marymount,” she said, breath catching. “Active shooter. It just hit the alerts.”
For a second, the hallway around us narrowed to a point. Marymount. The word landed with the force of something I should have anticipated and somehow hadn’t.
Livvy.
My phone began to buzz in my hand again.
“I just heard,” I answered. “Meet me in the garage.”
Thomas waited by the SUV with his hand on the door and his Kevlar vest already in place. His tie was crooked, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, too bright against the sick weight gathering under my ribs.
“Still active?” he asked, looking down at the vest in my hand.