Need redundancy. Now.
An internet café three blocks north flashes in my memory—anonymous terminals, no account required, cash only. Risky, but less risky than carrying the only copy. Every second without backups increases the odds of total evidence loss.
I duck inside. Burnt coffee and desperation assault my nostrils again—stale air recycled through cheap filters,unwashed bodies, the chemical sweetness of energy drinks. The teenager behind the counter doesn’t even glance up from his phone. Earbuds blocking out the world.
Perfect.
I slide into a terminal at the back, angled so I can monitor the door. My movements are automatic, disconnected from the shaking in my hands. Fingers flying across keys. Three minutes to copy the drive to a new USB from the basket of extras they sell. I slip both drives inside my bra for safe keeping. Another minute to upload encrypted backups to cloud servers I maintain under false identities.
Habits from my FBI days. Habits that might save my life.
My phone vibrates. Morrison’s number.
“Singh. What’s up?”
“Remember that whistleblower situation?” I keep my voice low, back pressed to the wall. “High-priority corporate malfeasance with significant casualties.”
“Yes?” Keys click on his end.
“Victor Lawson was just hit. Professional job. I have what he was carrying.”
Silence stretches. Two heartbeats. Then his breathing changes—controlled, operational.
“Where are you?”
“Internet café, Third and Madison.”
“Stay public. I’ll be there in twelve minutes.”
“Will do.”
The upload completes. I pocket both drives, leave a twenty on the counter, and step back onto the street. The rain has started again, a soft mist that makes everything look like a watercolor painting slowly dissolving.
Morrison’s sedan slides to the curb exactly eleven minutes later. Government plates. Bulletproof glass. Subtle tells for those who know the pattern. The passenger window lowers.
“Get in.”
I slip inside. The interior smells like coffee and gun oil—burnt grounds and CLP solvent. It smells like safety. Morrison looks exactly as he did when I left the Bureau. Crisp suit that never wrinkles. Sharp eyes that miss nothing. Worry lines that have deepened into permanent grooves.
He pulls into traffic, smooth but fast, eyes constantly scanning mirrors.
“Do they know about you?” His tone is conversational. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
“Unknown.” The original drive burns against my skin. “Victor was paranoid. Thought he was being followed.”
“Paranoid people?—”
“Live longer. Usually.” I pull the drive free. It’s warm from my skin, slightly damp with sweat. “Clinical trials. Cover-ups. Payoffs. All documented.”
He pockets it with the kind of ease that comes from years of handling dangerous evidence. “Backups?”
“Multiple.”
“Good girl.” A sharp right turn, then a left. Anti-surveillance driving. “This goes deeper than Meridian?”
“Four other pharmaceutical companies. Same patterns.” The words come clipped. Factual. It’s easier to speak in data than to think about the pink foam on Victor’s lips. “Connected through parent company—Nexus Holdings. Statistical probability of coincidence?—”
“Zero. I know how you think, Singh.” Another turn. “Protected by?”
