22. Micah
TWENTY-TWO
MICAH
There’s always a cup on the table in front of Odin. Today it’s an espresso that’s untouched. I know what to expect. He’ll take one, maybe two sips, then discard it.
I’ve never seen the man finish a drink.
I think it’s a power move. Everything with Odin is a power move, right down to the way he sits—jacket buttoned, one ankle crossed over his knee, his pale gray eye taking in the room, while the glass one stares through you.
Today he’s in a two-piece navy suit. He must be feeling casual.
“Gentlemen.” Odin sets down his espresso after the obligatory single sip. “There are two items on today’s agenda. I’ll take them in order. First—the matter of Miss Adams.”
Four men go still in four different ways.
“Fenrir has found something.”
Fenrir is a ghost—none of us have seen him, few of us have spoken to him, and Milo is the only one who’s worked with him directly, even then through screens and a voice processor.
What I know is that Fenrir can find things in the digital world that shouldn’t be findable.
Dead data. Buried accounts. The stuff that gets deleted, overwritten, and forgotten about.
Fenrir doesn’t forget.
“As you know,” Odin continues, “we’ve been running a deep background on Brock Davis since the original operation.
Standard procedure—mapping associates, financial connections, digital footprint.
Most of what we found was consistent with the profile: he’s a predator operating in relative isolation, enabled by social structures but not connected to any organized network. Or so we thought.”
He pauses to flick open a slim folder on the table in front of him. With one finger, he slides a single printed page to the center of the table.
“Fenrir flagged this three days ago. A members-only platform that operated on the deep web. The forum has been defunct for five years, but Fenrir recovered cached data from a mirror server that was never properly wiped.”
Milo leans forward, eyes on the printout. His pen cap stops mid-chew.
“The forum was called The Lodge. It presented itself as a men’s rights discussion board, but the private channels told a different story.
It was a place for the morally bankrupt.
They shared intimate photographs without consent.
Provided each other with advice on how to isolate, manipulate, and assault.
” Odin’s voice doesn’t change at all, which is somehow worse.
“It was a coordination platform for sex abusers.”
My stomach turns.
“We identified a username—ApexMars—that Fenrir connected to Brock. Mars was the name of his dog. He reused the handle across a couple of platforms, including a Reddit account we’ve tied to him.
The posting history is consistent with his syntax and general profile.
While routinely heinous across the board”—Odin taps the printout—“Fenrir flagged this specifically.”
Holden pulls the page closer. I lean in to read over his shoulder.
It’s a screenshot of a private message exchange between two users. One is Brock, ApexMars, and the other goes by SMAN69.
“Stephen?” I ask, glancing up at Odin.
He shrugs. “We’re unsure, but it’s possible.”
The messages are timestamped March 2018, and the conversation is brief.
ApexMars: she’s at the party 2nite. same 1 from the bar. Sent u the pic
SMAN69: the redhead?
ApexMars: yeh
SMAN69: U sure?
ApexMars: positive. gonna follow her home. That’s when I’ll do it
SMAN69: don’t fuck it up this time. make sure she can’t talk after
ApexMars: relax. i’ve got it handled. U good for 2nite?
SMAN69: pics or it didn’t happen
SMAN69: Yeah, I’m good. Call when done
The room is silent. Odin lifts his cup, taking another sip.
“March 2018,” Holden murmurs. “You think he was offending all the way back then?”
“Correct.” Odin folds his hands. “Which means, if this exchange is to be believed, he didn’t act alone. He’s coordinated attacks with at least one other individual.”
“SMAN69,” Milo says. “Has Fenrir identified anything about the account holder?”
“Not yet. The forum’s user database was encrypted and partially corrupted when the servers were shut down.
Fenrir is working on reconstructing the registration data, but it’s painstaking.
What we do know is that SMAN69 was an active member of The Lodge for approximately three years, with a posting history that suggests a slowly developing understanding of digital security.
He didn’t arrive careful. He learned to be. ”
“The text Sage received.” Eli’s fingers are pressing into the table hard enough to blanch at the knuckles. “The spoofed one from Brock’s number. You think SMAN69 is the sender?”
“It’s our working theory.” Odin nods. “The technical capability is consistent. Spoofing a dead man’s phone number requires access to carrier-level systems or a very good proxy. That’s not amateur work.”
“Make sure she can’t talk after,” Knox repeats.
The silence that follows is deadly.
Holden closes the folder. “Fenrir needs to keep working the username. That’s priority one. I want registration data, IP logs, anything that survived the server wipe. If this person is still active, they’ll have left traces somewhere else.”
“Already in motion,” Odin says. “Fenrir has also begun cross-referencing the username against known associates of Davis—friends, colleagues, classmates. We doubt we’ll find anything that way, but it never hurts to try.”
“I can start scoping universities and schools,” Milo offers. “Split the work with Fenrir.”
Odin nods. “Good thinking. There’s one more thing.
” Odin lets the pause stretch. “Fenrir also noted that SMAN69’s posting activity on The Lodge stopped abruptly in June 2019.
No farewell. No deletion of the account.
The posts simply ceased. This is consistent with an arrest, a death, or a deliberate decision to go dark. ”
“Or a migration,” Milo murmurs, half to himself.
His leg jiggles violently on the barstool, a sure sign his mind is racing a million miles an hour.
“He could have moved to a different platform. Something more secure. If The Lodge went down, the users would have scattered. Some of them may have regrouped elsewhere.”
“Which is why Fenrir is also mapping the diaspora of Lodge users across successor platforms.”
Milo nods.
“Is that it?” I ask, watching Odin. “Anything else?”
He shakes his head once.
“Okay.” I suck in a deep breath. “Then we need to talk about Sage.”
Odin’s eyebrow arches, but he says nothing, waiting for me to speak.
“She wants in. She’s been asking for weeks, and every time we’ve shut her down.” I suck in a breath. “But she’s already a part of this, whether we want to acknowledge it or not. Keeping her out doesn’t protect her.”
The only indication Odin’s displeased with this conversation is the light tap of his finger against the arm of his chair. He’s silent for a long while, his gaze dancing around the room.
“My concern,” Odin says finally, “has always been that she’s a liability. An untrained civilian in the field is a risk multiplier.” He looks to Holden. “Your assessment?”
Holden leans forward. “She’s ready for inclusion in planning and surveillance. Full operational participation—I’d want to see her through two supervised runs before she’s cleared for field work.”
“Knox?”
Knox doesn’t hesitate. “She’s one of us.”
Four words that say more than enough.
“Micah?”
“She’s been ready for a while,” I say. “The only thing holding her back has been us.”
“Milo?”
“I’ve prepared a thirty-seven-slide presentation on why Sage should—”
“A simple yes will suffice.”
“Yes. Emphatically, enthusiastically, and with multiple exclamation marks.”
“Eli?”
Eli lifts his head. The bruise on his cheekbone from Milo’s fist in the garage has faded to a faint yellow shadow that you’d only notice if you knew where to look.
“She’s the strongest of all of us,” he says. “And she’s right. We’re better together than apart.”
Odin considers this for a moment. His eye moves across each of us, that weighing gaze that makes you feel like he’s reading your personnel file behind your face.
“Very well.”
Milo punches the air silently. I catch his eye and he grins. Even Holden’s jaw unclenches a fraction.
“However.” The word lands like a door closing.
“There is an active threat against her life. Someone is targeting her. Someone who may have coordinated prior assaults with Davis. Until that threat is identified and neutralized, bringing her into active operations introduces a variable I’m not comfortable with. ”
“She’s not asking to run a job tomorrow,” I say. “She’s asking to be in the room.”
“And I’m saying she can be in the room, but not the field until after the stalker is dealt with.” Odin’s tone brooks no arguments. “Find SMAN69. Neutralize the threat. Then Miss Adams can have the opportunity to prove herself in the field.”
He picks up his espresso, takes a third sip—unprecedented—and sets it down. “Brief her after the meeting. We’ll begin by reading her in on the next target. Which brings me to the second item.” Odin’s voice shifts. “Your next target.”
Odin slides a folder across the table. It’s the standard dossier—matte black, no markings, the kind that gets burned after the operation. Holden takes it first as always.
“Angus Webster,” Odin says. “Forty-four. Head of youth athletics at St. Clement’s Preparatory School. Married. Three children. A dog—a Saint Bernard. Active in his church. Coaches the under-sixteens lacrosse team and runs the school’s summer sports camp.”
I stiffen. There’s a specific kind of cold that seeps in when a target involves children.
“Nine complaints filed with school administration over the past seven years,” Odin continues.
“Every single one was handled internally. No police involvement. No external investigation. This school’s board includes Webster’s father-in-law, who also happens to be the largest individual donor to St. Clement’s endowment. ”
“Of course he is,” Milo mutters.
Holden is scanning the file.