38. Milo #2
“Who’s Stephen?” Holden asks, smooth as a lane change. “That name ring a bell for any of you?”
The name hits different for each of them. Chris frowns. Darren’s face goes blank. Jake finally looks up from his beer, and for one second his eyes flash to Chris before snapping back to the wall.
The same itch I got at Pinecrest when Tyler’s thumbs moved and Stephen lit up Brock’s cloned phone. We never proved that connection, but I never believed it was coincidence.
“Don’t know a Stephen,” Chris says.
“Me either,” Darren adds.
Jake says nothing. He picks up his beer and drinks.
Holden lets the silence stretch. I can hear the clatter of glasses being washed behind the bar, the muffled bass of whatever sports channel is playing on the screens, the tap of condensation dripping from Chris’s untouched glass onto the table.
“All right,” Holden says. He closes the notebook with strong nothing-to-see-here energy. “Thanks for your time. If anything comes to mind, here’s my card.” He drops three cards on the table, one in front of each of them. “And I mean anything. Sometimes the small details are the ones that matter.”
Chris takes the card. Darren takes the card. Jake doesn’t touch his.
Interesting.
Holden stands, adjusting his jacket. Nods once at the three of them and walks toward the bar, where he orders a coffee he won’t drink because it’s part of the exit routine. He’s buying me time. Making his departure look unhurried while I finish the last of the data pull.
I check my screen. Chris’s phone is at 94% cloned. Darren’s is at 97%. Jake’s is lagging at 71%, but I’ve got his texts, his photos, and most of his apps.
And that’s when I see it.
Buried in Jake’s app drawer there’s a small black icon with the white outline of a kennel and a padlock across the door—which, considering this guy doesn’t have any pictures of pets, seems off.
I switch to my laptop. The app doesn’t show up in any standard app store search. It’s not on Google Play. It’s not on the App Store. It’s not anywhere I can search on a regular network. No. This app has been sideloaded, which means someone sent Jake the installation file directly.
My gut drops.
I tap it.
A login screen appears. Username. Password. No recovery option, terms of service, or branding beyond a name at the top.
The Kennel.
The name catches.
Brock’s cloned phone had that dog-training group chat—the one I dismissed until The Lodge made me go back and read it properly. Breeds. Temperaments. Breaking stubborn bitches. None of it had been about dogs.
That forum Fenrir found, the Lodge, showed us men sharing women and abuse tactics online. Then it disappeared, and we suspected its users had moved somewhere harder to reach.
Now one of Tyler’s friends has an encrypted app called The Kennel.
It isn’t proof.
But it’s one hell of a coincidence.
At the bottom of the screen, a single line appears.
By invitation only.
“Shit.”
There’s no saved login info inside the device, and no way I can see to force my way past this login screen.
Whatever’s inside is locked down tighter than a nun’s pussy.
I can see the file size—it’s substantial, which means content.
Stored data. Cached messages or media or both.
But I can’t crack the encryption here, not on a phone screen in a sports bar with a Coke going warm beside me.
I need Fenrir.
As soon as the phones have finished cloning, I save a snapshot of the app architecture, the encryption headers, and every piece of metadata I can scrape without triggering any security protocols.
Then I package the whole dump—all three phones, flagged and sorted—and route it through my secure relay to Fenrir’s server.
Holden’s still at the bar. His coffee has arrived. He stirs it once, doesn’t drink, and catches my eye in the mirror behind the bottles.
I give him a single nod. All three phones are cloned, and I now have ongoing access to the lives of these fuckers. We’ve got what we need.
He sets money on the bar and leaves first. I wait ninety seconds, then close my laptop, kill the rig, and stuff everything into my backpack. Everyone’s phones will reconnect to their carrier signals within seconds. Nobody will notice a gap.
I’m amazing at this. Nobody ever notices a gap.
I slide off the stool and walk past their booth on my way out. Chris is talking low to Darren, his hand cupped around his mouth like he’s worried the walls have ears. Jake is sitting apart from them, rigid, staring at his phone.
Jake lifts his head as I pass. Our eyes meet for less than a second before he looks back down at his phone, completely dismissing me. There’s nothing in his face. No recognition or suspicion that a man just walked past him with a mirror image of his entire digital life in a backpack.
I push through the door and the night air hits me.
Holden is in his car at the far end of the lot, engine running, lights off. I climb in.
“Tell me,” he says.
“All three phones cloned. It’s all on its way to Fenrir.” I pull my seatbelt on and stare at the bar entrance. Through the window I can see Chris’s silhouette, still talking. “Chris is an asshole but he’s an open book. Darren follows whatever Chris says. Jake is a different beast altogether.”
“How so?”
“He’s got an app on his phone. Encrypted. Sideloaded. Icon looks like a dog kennel with a padlock. It’s invitation-only access.” I turn to look at Holden. “It’s not standard software. It’s something built for people who don’t want to be found.”
Holden’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Can Fenrir crack it?”
“If anyone can, he can. I’ve sent him everything. He’ll need time, but he’s got the raw material.”
Holden processes that. I can practically hear him sorting it into columns.
“Jake reacted to Stephen,” Holden says.
“He looked at Chris before he answered.”
“Which means he recognized the name, or knew Chris did.”
“Either way, the answer wasn’t clean.” I drum my fingers on the dashboard. “Tyler named Chris as the ringleader, but Jake’s the one carrying The Kennel around in his pocket.”
“The gym connection,” Holden says. “Tyler said Jake was ‘from the gym.’ Which gym?”
“Already on it. Fenrir will pull location data from the phone clone. If Jake and Brock shared a gym, that’s a physical location where they could have met without the rest of the group knowing.”
Holden nods. He puts the car in gear and pulls slowly out of the lot, headlights cutting through the dark.
“You did good in there, Milo.”
“I know.” I pull out my phone and start drafting a priority message to Fenrir. Subject line: Dig deep.
Then I add a second line, because I can’t help myself.
Bet you $50 you can’t crack this in less than forty-eight hours.
Fenrir’s reply comes quickly.
Add two more zeros and I’ll do it in twenty-four.