Sarah’s patience snapped.“Can someone translate?”
Griff didn’t soften it.“They’ll kill anyone who can expose them. Judges. Journalists. Military officials. They’ll make the murders look like accidents or suicides.”
The chillthat slid through Sarah had nothing to do with the basement’s air conditioning. “We have to warn them.”
“Warn who?”Doc pulled up a new screen. “Half the channels are compromised. The other half won’t believe us.”
Finally,the drive loaded. The network blossomed across the monitors: hundreds of names, thousands of connections—a web of corruption reaching into every branch of government.
Sarah traceda line with her finger. “Judges. Reporters. Honest cops… it’s a purge.”
“Stalin would be impressed,”Doc said grimly. “Follow me.”
She shepherded them upstairs to a study that belonged in an English estate—dark leather, oriental rugs, shelves of books. But Sarah’s gaze caught on one wall covered in framed clippings:
Corrupt CEO Diesin Yacht Accident.
Child Trafficking Ring Exposed by Anonymous Source.
Judge Resigns After Compromising Photos.
The financial patternsleapt out at Sarah instantly. Elegant. Ruthless. “You’re a vigilante.”
“I prefer ‘aggressive philanthropist.’The law has limits. I don’t.”
A photographon the desk pulled Sarah’s eyes: a young man, bright smile, standing before the Hoover Building.
“James Pearson,”Doc said softly. “Brilliant analyst. Found Stillwater’s trail two years ago. Started asking questions.”
Sarah already knew but whispered,“What happened?”
“Suicide.Two bullets to the head. Not unlike Griffin’s friend.” Doc’s control faltered, fury simmering beneath. “I failed him. I won’t fail you.”
The weightof it pressed down until Sarah’s knees wanted to give. She’d started this as a numbers nerd in an FBI cubicle. Now she stood in a vigilante’s lair, protected by a ghost and a professor-turned-warrior, hunted by mercenaries who owned half the government.
“How did my life become this?”she whispered.
Doc only smiled,sharp as glass. “You analyze the drive. Griffin rests. I’ll wake some gray channels.”
“And then?”Sarah asked.
“Then, my loves,”Doc said, pearls glinting on the desk, “we go to war.”
20
Six hours later,after a shower, a shave and a little rack time, Griff stood at Doc's kitchen window, cataloging every detail. Like the rest of his team, he owed his survival to noticing what others missed.
Hot water, clean clothes from Doc’s apparently endless stash and good food in his belly had done wonders. Even more so for Sarah, clearly. She’d dumped her filthy truck-stop wear for a pair of silky pajama bottoms and some kind of flowy tunic that highlighted her flawless skin. The kinds of clothes she looked born to wear.
After a quick recon, he could absolutely give Doc’s set up five stars. Even Christian, Knight Tactical’s safehouse specialist, would be impressed. Motion sensors hidden in the garden beds. Reinforced window frames—bulletproof, probably level III. Security cameras positioned to eliminate blind spots. The woman who claimed to be a retired economics professor had built herself a fortress disguised as a Virginia farmhouse.
"Griffin. Stop casing my home and help us," Doc said without looking up from where she and Sarah huddled overlaptops at the dining table. "Your paranoia isn't speeding up the decryption."
"It's not paranoia if they're actually trying to kill us."
"Agreed. But standing there glowering won't help us figure out who 'they' actually are."
Sarah's fingers hadn't stopped moving across her keyboard for the past hour, as she occasionally muttering about hash patterns and authentication protocols. She'd pulled her hair into a messy bun, glasses sliding down her nose as she leaned closer to the screen.
