Valentina #2
I look from the diagram to the whiteboard behind Calder.
The categories remain familiar even after the names beneath them have changed: recruitment, finance, transport, political insulation, medical support, surveillance, buyers.
I spent years inside one branch without seeing the full architecture.
Then I spent months trying to help dismantle it one property at a time.
Manhattan finally taught us what should have been obvious sooner.
A network designed to survive the loss of people can survive the loss of one architect, even an important one.
My child does not need that lesson. Our child gets to grow up without learning that survival requires becoming useful to dangerous people.
I do not know what the world will look like by the time the baby can understand any of this.
I only know the work is still waiting, and I am here because I decided it could wait while I healed.
The baby shifts again, mouth moving against the blanket.
I glance at the clock on the wall, then at Calder’s notes.
Returning to work with a newborn has required fewer grand decisions than I expected and more small ones: meetings pause when I say they pause, files move to whichever room I choose, and nobody treats exhaustion as a confession that I should surrender the investigation.
Today I wanted the operations room because I missed the board.
Tomorrow I may want the couch, three hours of sleep, and no one saying the word encryption near me. Both answers belong to me.
“We have twenty minutes before I stop caring about cybersecurity and start caring about food.”
Max looks offended. “I offered food before the meeting.”
“You offered something with chia seeds.”
“They are a legitimate food.”
Moreno says, “Debatable.”
“You eat protein powder that tastes like drywall. You have no authority.”
Calder’s arm tightens a fraction across me, enough to keep the baby secure when I lean forward to point at the network diagram.
“We use the twenty minutes. Bishop, if you can’t break the system, tell me what it would take for someone else to do it.
Different access? Different skill set? Insider credentials? ”
Bishop considers the question rather than protecting his pride.
“Possibly all three. The problem isn’t that the encryption is mystical.
The system is defensive in ways tailored to my methods and to the tools they know law enforcement and commercial security teams use.
Someone approaching it from an unfamiliar architecture might find an opening I won’t.
Someone with knowledge of how the new layers were built would have an obvious advantage. ”
“Do we have either?” I ask.
“Not verified.”
Bas shifts in his chair. Months ago I might have missed it because I would have been measuring weapons, exits, and who controlled which door. Now I know the operations room well enough to notice when the most restless man in it becomes careful about moving.
I stop pointing at the screen. “Why do the three of you look guilty?”
Max follows my attention. “Oh, good. I thought I was the only one enjoying that.”
Bas looks toward Calder by reflex, catches himself, and redirects to me. Nobody misses the correction, but Calder does not reclaim the question. “It isn’t guilt.”
Moreno turns his chair toward them. “Explain.”
Kai glances once at Damon, gets no rescue there, and says, “We might know somebody.”
Bishop’s face on the wall remains still. Calder’s hand stops over the next page. Max gives the sleeping baby a solemn look that suggests six weeks old may be too young to witness poor decision-making.
I ask, “Somebody who can get into systems Bishop can’t?”
“Probably,” Bas says.
“Probably is not a useful qualification.”
Damon finally looks up from the access log. “She’s better than anybody we’ve seen.”
There is no bragging in the answer. Damon documents limitations for a living; hearing certainty from him is more interesting than confidence from Bas.
Bishop asks, “What has she accessed?”
The three men become more uncomfortable, which is an answer to a question nobody asked.
Calder says, “Do not give us a story you cannot support. Start with what you know firsthand.”
Kai leans forward. “We know she can get into systems other people can’t. We also know enough not to put details on an open room screen.”
Bishop does not object. “Good. I’ll verify skill separately.”
I shift the baby higher against my chest. “Is she a hacker?”
“Yes,” Damon says.
“Then why does the skill look like the least important part?”
Nobody answers quickly.
Moreno’s voice gets quieter. “What is the problem?”
Bas rubs both hands over his thighs, looks at Kai and Damon, and gives them the chance to volunteer for unpopularity. Neither does.
“Getting into the system isn’t the problem,” he says. “The real question is whether she’ll speak to us.”
The baby chooses that moment to wake, making a soft complaint that ends the room’s silence more effectively than any of us could.
Max holds out his arms but waits until I transfer the baby to him, then settles our child against his chest with the competence of a man who has practiced at three in the morning and still insists every success deserves applause.
I look back at Kai, Damon, and Bas. “Then that is where you start. Why she won’t speak to you. Nobody contacts her until we know what history we are walking into.”
Bas opens his mouth, thinks better of whatever was coming, and nods. Damon reaches for the notes he abandoned. Kai finally looks relieved to have a problem he can explain instead of one he has to hide.
Bishop starts another search while Calder clears a space on the board for the new lead.
Moreno slides my water closer, and Max paces once with the baby before settling beside me again.
The operations-room door stands open behind us.
For the first time in my life, I have to remind myself it is there.
My dear reader, thanks for reading
Masked Daddies.