Chapter 8
SARAH
Oh-six-hundred arrives sharp and unforgiving.
I'm already at my workspace when Micah walks through the door, punctual to the second. His field notes are organized, his expression neutral. We're acting like strangers assigned to a routine case instead of two people whose history could destroy us both if we let it.
My coffee's gone cold in the past hour while I've been compiling data on our internal network.
I've pulled communication logs, contact profiles, pattern analysis.
Work that kept me awake most of the night because sleep means stopping, and stopping means thinking about things that aren't the mission.
"Morning," he says, voice low and even.
I keep my eyes on my screen. "Close the door. This stays compartmentalized."
He does, then crosses to the analysis table where I've set up the secure terminal.
His movements are controlled, deliberate, radiating the same coiled tension I remember from meetings at the NSA when he'd analyze intelligence with that quiet intensity that meant he was three steps ahead of everyone else.
Except now I'm the threat. Or maybe the danger we're both trying to avoid acknowledging.
"Kane briefed you on the parameters?" I say, bringing up the first set of files.
"We have full authorization to investigate the leak, but we're keeping it to you, me, Kane and Tommy for now.
The fewer people who know we're investigating our external contacts, the less chance whoever's compromised catches wind of it. "
"Agreed. Limited exposure reduces the chance whoever's compromised learns we're investigating."
His voice carries no inflection, no attempt to bridge the distance between us with anything approaching warmth or apology.
Good. His excuses mean nothing. The hell I’ve been through has made me far less understanding about the job and its fallout than I used to be.
I refuse to hear about operational necessity or communications blackouts that somehow prevented him from sending one message in two years to tell me he wasn't dead.
The data is my focus now. Data doesn't lie. Data doesn't disappear for two years and then walk back into your life as if absence is something you can just ignore.
"Reeve's intercept is our starting point." The enhanced audio appears on the display. "He got closer to finding us than anyone has before. That level of precision requires either signals intercept of our communications or human intelligence from someone with direct knowledge."
Micah sets his tablet on the table, his own analysis already loaded.
"The Committee doesn't have our communication protocols.
I spent two years inside their networks and never saw evidence they'd cracked our encryption.
Webb's pushed hard for signals intelligence capability, but his technical team can't break military-grade encryption without significant computational resources they don't have. "
"Human intelligence, then. Someone talking."
"Someone with access."
We work in silence for several minutes, cross-referencing communication patterns with Committee activity timelines.
My screens show signals intercepts and data flow.
His show intelligence gathered during his time embedded in Webb's organization—names and faces of Committee operatives, network diagrams that map their structure with frightening detail.
Old analytical rhythms surface despite the tension crackling between us. I spot a pattern in the communication timing and open the relevant logs. He sees what I'm looking at and flags the corresponding Committee operations without me having to explain the connection.
We used to do this in DC. Late nights when we were tracking Committee financial networks together, CIA and NSA sitting across from each other at workstations while we built cases that dismantled money laundering operations piece by piece.
He'd see patterns in the operational intelligence.
I'd find the corresponding signals evidence.
Together we could construct prosecutions that held up under the most aggressive legal scrutiny.
That was before. When I believed encrypted channels could protect what we had and promises actually meant something.
"Two potential sources." I display the profile files I compiled overnight. "Carlos Rodriguez, federal contact. Former FBI counterintelligence who got burned during a Committee investigation. We've cultivated him as a source for federal intelligence, reciprocal information sharing."
"What can he see?"
"More than most contacts would have. He knows general mission scope since we trade intelligence on Committee activities. Kane compartmentalizes carefully, but Rodriguez has enough context to infer operational patterns."
Micah leans back, arms crossed. "Motive?"
"Money. Blackmail. The Committee has resources for both. Rodriguez has a daughter with medical bills that insurance won't cover. Financial pressure makes people vulnerable."
"Webb would exploit that." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "He's methodical about identifying pressure points. Finds what someone values and uses it against them."
There's something in his voice that sounds personal. He's seen how Webb operates up close and the knowledge carved scars he's still carrying.
I refuse to ask. Knowing what he sacrificed or witnessed during those undercover assignments leads to questions about why it was necessary and whether any intelligence is worth the cost of disappearing completely.
"Victoria Cross." I load the file I've been dreading.
Silence fills the analysis room, heavy with implications neither of us wants to voice.
Victoria's our primary intelligence broker, the woman who sells information to anyone except the Committee.
Her hatred for Webb runs deeper than her pragmatism.
She's helped Echo Ridge with critical intelligence, warned us about operations, provided financial records that exposed Committee funding networks.
She's also smart enough to play both sides if the price justifies the risk.
"Victoria knows our operational patterns," I say, keeping my voice cold and detached. "She's brokered intelligence for multiple Echo Ridge operations. Has extensive knowledge of our external contact network, enough context to infer mission parameters and team composition."
"She loathes the Committee." Micah's tone is measured. "Webb killed her brother during a failed extraction. She's been bleeding them dry with intelligence leaks for years."
"People are complicated. Revenge doesn't preclude pragmatism, and Victoria's practical above everything else. If the Committee offered enough money or the right leverage, she might sell."
"You don't believe that."
"I believe people are capable of anything under the right pressure." I meet his eyes across the analysis table, let him see the ice in mine. "I believe betrayal is always a possibility, even from people you think you know—people who vanished without a trace when I needed them most."
Recognition flashes across his expression, guilt settling into the lines around his eyes.
Good. He should carry that. He should feel it every time we're in the same room.
"Sarah—"
"We're not doing this." Each word is sharp and precise. "We're investigating a leak. Everything else belongs outside this room."
He nods once, controlled.
We return to the analysis, but something's shifted in the atmosphere. It's colder, more brittle. We're operating in a minefield where one wrong word will detonate everything we're trying to keep compartmentalized.
Communication logs for both potential sources appear on my screens. I start building timelines that correlate their contact with Committee activity. Micah cross-references with his intelligence on Webb's operations, identifying patterns that suggest information flow.
Rodriguez is more concerning. His financial situation has deteriorated significantly over recent months. His medical bills are mounting, his mortgage payments are late. It's the kind of pressure that makes federal contacts vulnerable to Committee recruitment.
But his communication patterns show none of the regular contact frequency you'd expect from active intelligence sharing. There are no suspicious gaps that might indicate in-person meetings or covert channels.
"Rodriguez is struggling financially but the pattern's wrong," Micah says, voicing what the data shows. "If he was selling intelligence regularly, we'd see more frequent contact or evidence of compensation. His bank records show declining balance, not unexplained deposits."
"Unless the Committee's paying him in cash or offshore accounts we can't trace."
"Possible. But Webb's methodical. He'd want documentation, leverage to ensure continued cooperation. Cash transactions leave him vulnerable if the source decides to stop cooperating."
We move to Victoria's files and the data gets more complicated. She contacts multiple intelligence sources, brokers information across networks, maintains relationships with people who have their own agendas and allegiances.
"Victoria's network is extensive." The contact map I built overnight spreads across the display, showing her connections spreading across federal agencies, private intelligence firms, international brokers.
"She interfaces with dozens of sources monthly.
Any one of them could be Committee-connected without her knowledge. "
"Or with her knowledge if she's playing a deeper game."
"You think she'd risk it? Webb killed her brother."
Micah studies the network map with an intensity I remember from DC when he was tracking Committee financial flows through shell corporations and offshore accounts.
"Webb's organization is different now than it was before Morrison died.
More aggressive. More willing to take risks Morrison would have avoided.
If Webb made Victoria an offer that served her interests beyond just revenge—"