Chapter 17 Atticus #2
“Luke mentioned it,” I remembered. “At dinner Wednesday, he said something about Mindy wanting a thirty-thousand-dollar purse.”
“She bought three. Last month alone.”
“Jesus. What’s Trevor supposedly earning from Redpoint?”
“Three hundred thousand. Comfortable, but not this comfortable.”
“Family money?”
“Mindy’s family is middle class from Ohio. Trevor’s father is career Army, mother’s a teacher. No trust funds, no inheritance.”
Admiral studied the patterns. “So where’s the money coming from?”
“Morrison,” Alice said. “I’ve traced twelve of the seventeen shell companies so far. They all link back to his investment funds through various cutouts.”
An hour into the decryption process, patterns emerged. Messages between Trevor and someone designated “M1”—obviously Morrison.
The early ones were innocuous. Investment opportunities, potential partnerships, standard Silicon Valley networking. But six months ago, the tone shifted.
Interested in discussing alternative revenue streams?
Depends on the nature, Trevor had responded.
Information has value. Your position provides unique insights.
I’m listening.
What followed was a gradual seduction. Small requests at first—which grants were likely to be approved, budget allocations for various departments. Nothing classified, nothing obviously illegal. Just insider information worth millions to someone who could position investments accordingly.
“Luke had no idea,” I said, reading through the exchanges. “His partner was selling their company’s data behind his back.”
“There’s more,” Alice said. “Look at Friday night—the Rosewood mixer.”
Morrison’s tone changed immediately after that.
New players at tonight’s event require investigation, came from M1.
Someone called L1, most likely Liu, responded. Running protocols. Maintain distance.
Saturday showed escalation, but unsurprisingly, the sender’s ID had changed.
Nolan couple profiles inconsistent. Possible federal investigation targeting operations.
Confidence level?
Seventy percent. Initiating contingency protocols if confirmed.
“He suspected us from the start,” I muttered.
“But didn’t know for certain,” said Alice. “Look at Monday.”
Confirmation received. Nolan couple identified as Mason Finch and Brenna Austen.
“Fuck. So we were blown almost from the beginning.” I wouldn’t question Alice now—or ever—but K19’s methodologies for cover identities and background were supposed to be airtight.
As if she knew the question rolling around in my head, Alice pulled up a complex web of data points.
“They used extremely powerful data analysis software to investigate our fake identities—checking everything from our social media activity and financial records to facial recognition data from airports and border crossings.”
“Our covers were too perfect,” I realized. “Alice, your work is flawless, but—”
“But that perfection itself becomes a tell to someone paranoid enough,” she finished.
“Real people have messy histories. Credit dings, parking tickets, embarrassing social media from college. Our histories weren’t clean by any means, but once he got suspicious, he pulled in favors from everywhere.
Which, by the way, points to several lower-level people within the DOJ itself. ”
“Does Brenna know?” I asked.
Alice turned to me. “All evidence related to Justice went directly to Soledad Torres, Brenna’s boss. Per protocol.”
“Understood,” I said.
“Once he was suspicious, he started making calls,” added Tex. “One of the bastards we identified at the DOJ confirmed a major cybercrime investigation was active, targeting West Coast operations. Wasn’t hard for Morrison to put two and two together.”
The messages continued through the week, with Morrison instructing Trevor on exactly what to plant and when. But Saturday afternoon’s exchange laid out what had gone down later that night.
Partner arriving tonight. Perfect misdirection opportunity.
Contact L1. Standard protocol for 2100.
Confirmed. Full package ready.
“Morrison knew exactly what we’d hear and how we’d interpret it,” I said.
“They used coded language, but we can trace the actual meaning through their other communications. ‘Full investor package’ meant using terminology that would trigger federal investigators. ‘Milestone payment’ was the ten million.”
Alice pulled up more decrypted data. “The payments to Mindy were grooming, keeping Trevor compromised. But the actual frame job was activated Friday night after Morrison confirmed you were federal agents. Everything since then has been damage control.”
“Take a look at this,” said Tex, highlighting patterns in the system access logs. “Luke has a security protocol he’s used since his Air Force days.”
Legitimate access logs from the previous month appeared.
“See this handshake sequence? Double authentication with rotating passwords, then a specific pause pattern between directory accesses. Two seconds, seven seconds, one second. Consistent every time.” Tex shook his head.
“The forged accesses don’t have this pattern.
They couldn’t replicate it because they didn’t know it existed.
Classic mistake of a rushed frame job—they copied surface credentials but missed behavioral signatures. ”
My phone buzzed with a call from Kodiak.
“Tell me you have something good,” I answered, immediately putting the call on speaker.
“Trevor just tried to board a flight to Costa Rica. TSA held him on the watch list Admiral activated.”
“Has he said anything?”
“Only that he wants immunity in exchange for testimony. Apparently, he’s trying to negotiate—says he has recordings that prove his innocence but implicate others.”
“Tell them we have evidence that makes his testimony unnecessary but valuable. He can cooperate and get consideration, or face conspiracy to commit espionage, wire fraud, and about twenty other charges,” said Admiral.
“Copy that. Tank and I are en route to SFO now.”
After I hung up, Alice was already pulling up remote access protocols. “If Trevor powers that laptop on, I own it.”
“Legally?” Admiral asked.
“Warrants are already in place for electronic surveillance of Trevor Collins, based on the financial evidence. Completely legal.”
By zero five thirty, Trevor cracked. Not because of interrogation, but because the FBI showed him the evidence we’d compiled.
Through his lawyer, he provided a statement admitting to selling insider information to Morrison for six months, claiming he’d threatened to expose him to both the federal authorities and his wife if he didn’t cooperate with framing Luke.
“Why would his wife matter more than federal prison?” Dragon asked.
Alice pulled up more financial records. “Trevor’s been hiding massive debt from her. Not just gambling—he made catastrophic trades trying to keep up with her spending.”
My eyes scrunched. “Bad investments?”
“Trevor owes three hundred grand to various creditors. Some legitimate, some not. He’s been juggling disaster for months, and Morrison knew it.”
“That’s why Morrison could control him,” I said. “Pay his debts or let his creditors know where to find him.”
Trevor’s laptop contained encrypted files he’d kept as insurance—documented instructions from Morrison, financial transfers, even metadata proving the evidence against Luke was created after Friday night. Smart enough to keep records, not smart enough to avoid getting caught.
“The encryption certificate timestamps are unimpeachable,” Alice said, compiling everything into a package that would stand up in court.
“What about Luke?”
“I’ve documented forty-three instances where the real Luke used the two-seven-one pattern, versus zero instances in the fabricated accesses. Plus, hardware signatures proving Luke’s laptop was in Virginia while ‘his’ credentials accessed systems from California.”
Admiral studied the compiled evidence. “This proves Luke is innocent.”
“I need to get to DC. Now.”
“The Gulfstream is on standby in Albany,” Admiral said. “You can be there by zero eight hundred.”
I hadn’t slept since Sunday night, but adrenaline and purpose kept me sharp. I tried calling Brenna three times during the flight to DC, but all my calls went straight to voicemail.
The ride to Foggy Bottom took forty minutes through Tuesday morning rush hour. Government workers heading to their offices, tourists starting their day—normal life continuing while I carried evidence that would exonerate Luke and get Brenna to forgive me. At least I prayed it would.
I stood outside her building in the morning heat, evidence compiled on the encrypted drive in my hand.
Everything needed to free Luke occupied a piece of hardware smaller than a deck of cards.
The doorman recognized me from previous visits but said nothing about the tension that must have been radiating off me like heat waves.
I pressed her apartment number on the intercom, my finger steadier than my racing heart.
“Yes?” Her voice through the speaker sounded hollow, exhausted. Like she’d been crying. Of course she had—her brother was in federal custody, and the man she’d trusted had let her down.
“Brenna, it’s me. I have proof Luke’s innocent. Trevor framed him on Morrison’s orders. I have everything—the real timeline, the encryption certificates, Morrison’s communications. Luke never did anything wrong.”
Silence stretched between us, interrupted only by the soft hiss of the intercom’s static. I could hear her breathing, uneven and sharp. Was she processing what I’d said or deciding whether to hang up?
“I know I should have fought harder for him from the start,” I added, my voice cracking slightly. “I know I failed you both. But please, let me fix this. Let me make it right.”
The buzzer sounded, the lock releasing with a click that might have been the best sound I’d ever heard. Or the worst, depending on what waited for me upstairs.
Emma opened the apartment door just as I reached it.
“Where’s Brenna?”
She motioned to where she stood at her living room window, arms wrapped around herself, looking out at the city. When she turned to face me, her eyes were red-rimmed but dry.
“Show me what you found,” she said simply.
It was time to fight for all of us.