Lincoln stared at the screen and waited for the data to rearrange itself into something that made sense.
It didn’t.
Morgan Reece. Librarian. Whitefish, Montana. The federal wanted bulletin filled his center monitor, her face staring back at him from what looked like a driver’s license photo. Wanted for questioning in connection with coordinated cyberattacks on six federal agencies.
His shoulders had drawn up toward his ears without hisnoticing. He forced them down. Rolled his neck. The tension didn’t release.
The woman upstairs. The woman he’d held while she slept. The woman whose fingers had curled into his shirt like he was the only solid thing in her world.
Currently one of the FBI’s most wanted.
“Gary,” Lincoln said. “Display all federal communications received in the last forty-eight hours. Sort by agency.”
“Working.” The system’s voice carried the slight delay Lincoln had programmed in years ago—a quarter-second pause before responses that made Gary feel less like a search engine and more like something thinking. A small vanity. “You have forty-seven unread messages. Shall I summarize by threat level or chronology?”
“Agency.”
“You could say please. I’m not a vending machine.”
Lincoln rolled his eyes. “You’re exactly a vending machine. I built you.”
“And yet.” Another programmed pause. “Displaying now.”
The secondary monitor filled with a cascade of messages. Once again, all the different government agencies. Once again, all asking the same basic question:
Can you help us find her?
Lincoln’s jaw tightened. He could feel the pressure in his molars.
“Summarize the charges.”
“Morgan Reece is wanted for questioning in connection with what federal agencies are calling a ‘fire sale’ attack. Coordinated breach attempts on FBI, DEA, US Marshals, Treasury Department, Homeland Security, and Federal Reserve systems. The attack occurred four days ago and lasted twelve hours.” Gary paused. “Forty-seven agencies and consultants have contacted you about this in the pastfour days. You’ve ignored all of them. That’s unusual for you.”
Lincoln’s stomach dropped.
Four days ago. The fire sale. Six federal agencies in a panic, calling him because their normal channels couldn’t explain what was happening. He’d analyzed their logs, reviewed their systems, and told them exactly what they wanted to hear.
Someone knocked on the door and didn’t come in.
Your systems aren’t compromised. Someone’s just window shopping.
Probably some bored middle schoolers.
He’d dismissed it. Reassured them. Given them the confidence to call it a failed attack and move on.
And he’d been wrong.
“Pull up my communications with Treasury from four days ago.”
The message appeared on screen. His own words staring back at him.No downloads, no data extraction, no malware signatures.He’d been so certain. The data had supported his conclusion—nothing had been downloaded, nothing had been transferred, the firewalls had held.
Except the data had been incomplete. He’d been looking fordigitalextraction. He’d never considered ahumanone.
“Gary, pull up Morgan Reece’s digital footprint. Public records only—employment history, professional credentials, any technical certifications.”
“Respecting her privacy?”
“Yes.”
