“Do we know anything yet?” Kawan asked.
“We know this isn’t your basic encryption,” Specs muttered, eyes narrowed. “This is next-level obfuscation—layers of AES-256 with biometric checks. We’re talking deep black asset encryption. Like stuff only a few people even know how to write.”
Lark tilted her head. “Define few.”
“I don’t know how to do it,” Jupiter said. “And I know a lot of shit.”
“I know it, but it’s not common in the FBI. And I didn’t learn it there.” Specs glanced up.
“Can someone just spill who they think encrypted it?” Lark asked.
“Only person I can think of that knew this shit and how to layer like this was connected to our op,” Specs said. “And that’s Bradford.”
Kawan cursed under his breath. “Of course it would be him. Fucking smug bastard.”
“The only reason I’m even getting through the first layer,” Specs muttered, fingers dancing over the keyboard. “It's because I know the code. I helped write parts of it—field-level specs, encryption triggers. It’s like a private language used foreverything just blew up, and I’m in the deepest shit kind of trouble.”
“I’m not following,” Lark said.
“Inside Ghost Tier, there are only five of me.” Specs raised her hands from the keyboard and wiggled her fingers. “We all learned this code. It’s a way to protect information. To send information back to headquarters.”
“Does Lorre know about it?” Kawan asked.
“I’m sure he does.” Specs leaned forward, focus still shapr. “But I doubt he understands it. He, Grady, they’d need a techie to open it. This thing is wired to respond to location-based metadata, mission-specific key phrases, and even biometric cues, or even DNA verification, I’d bet it’s buried in here, too. Bradford didn’t just lock this down—he built it to open only for the ones who made it out—or knew enough about key details to decode it.”
“So, Lorre could’ve figured it out,” Lark said quietly.
“No. Because as I’ve gone through mission-specific phrases, a number of them have failed. That made me go down a chain of other things—some relating to how our team operated in the field. That, Lorre wouldn’t know.”
“How the fuck would Bradford?” Ry asked.
“Alverez,” Kawan said softly. “Had to be.”
A faint chime sounded. The screen flashed black, then a static-gray window appeared as a progress bar crawled slowly across the bottom.
Jupiter stepped forward. “Video feed incoming. Looks pre-recorded. No live transmission.”
Specs nodded. “No backdoor access detected. Looks clean. But let’s lock out Wi-Fi and all Internet access for now.”
“Consider it done,” Ry said.
“Play the video.” Lark stood and squeezed her stress ball so hard, it collapsed in her hand like it had finally broken itself in.
The window expanded, flickered—then resolved into the grainy face of a man she’d believed had died. Believed had betrayed her.
Alverez.
He looked wrecked. His left arm was in a sling, dried blood on his temple, a stitched gash down one side of his jaw.
Kawan stepped closer to the screen, his face hard.
“I’m alive,” Alverez said. “Barely. I owe that to Bradford. He pulled me out after the explosion went off in the chapel. I’d seen something and raced to help Mina. Only, as it turns out, she didn’t need my help. She needed me dead.”
“Jesus.” Lark paced the width of the room. She moved the ball from one hand and the other. It no longer provided the same relief. Setting it on the it on the table, she stood next to Kawan. She shouldered so close, their bodies touched.
“Bradford used old CIA contacts to get us out of South America. We’re not far but can’t say where. Can’t even risk the same location for long.”
The camera shifted slightly, like he was adjusting it with his good hand.
