Sarah watched them plan, each person knowing exactly their role, their strengths, their place in the machine. The complexity of running a false operation while executing the real one made her head spin.
"The beauty is," Ronan said, "Buckley thinks he's controlling us by hiring us. He'll be watching for us to make a move from our assigned positions."
"But he won't expect us to already have people inside," Maya added.
"Or to have the entire financial network mapped," Griff said, glancing at Sarah.
"Timing's critical," Ronan continued. "We maintain our posts from 1600hrs. At 1700hrs, during the cocktail hour when security's most relaxed, we make our real move."
"Buckley will have his own private security," Maya pointed out. "Beyond what he thinks we're providing."
"Let me guess," Izzy said. "Stillwater?"
"You know it," Griff confirmed. “I can’t wait.”
"But they won't expect their 'dupes' to turn the tables," Deke said with a grim smile.
"Element of surprise," Axel agreed. "Our best advantage."
Sarah listened to them plan contingencies, backup routes, extraction protocols. The double game they were playing—pretending to be Buckley's pawns while actually being the ones moving the pieces.
"Sarah." Ronan's voice cut through her thoughts. "Can you have the financial evidence ready by tomorrow afternoon?"
"Yes." She said it with more confidence than she felt. "I'll have everything—payment records, communication logs, the whole network mapped out."
"Good." He looked around the room. "We get one shot at this. Buckley thinks he's playing us, using the summit to eliminate threats including us. We're going to show him what happens when you underestimate Knight Tactical."
"For Tank," Deke said quietly.
"For Tank," they echoed.
Sarah turned back to her screens, fingers already flying. She might not know how to run a double operation or play security guard while planning a takedown, but she could follow money like a bloodhound. And somewhere in those numbers was the evidence that would nail Senator Buckley.
Forty hours to pretend to be pawns while becoming the players.
27
The kitchen had becomeDoc's command center. She moved between counters, conscripting Deke as sous chef without asking. The massive operator stood at the cutting board, dicing onions with the same focus he probably brought to disarming bombs.
"Knife skills translate," Doc observed, watching him work. "Though I suspect you learned yours differently than most chefs."
"Philippines," Deke confirmed. "Local taught us to prep fish during a surveillance op. Said we looked too obvious sitting around."
"Smart local." Doc piled serving dishes with enough food to feed the entire street. "Your founder used to say the same thing. 'Always be doing something useful.'"
Sarah's head snapped up from her laptop. "You knew Admiral Knight?"
"Our paths crossed during the Cold War's less publicized moments." Doc's expression gave nothing away. "Brilliant tactician. Terrible poker player."
"Seriously?" Deke froze, knife in hand. "I would not have guessed that. About the poker. Not the Cold War."
“All true." Doc pursed her lips, as if she’d swallowed something bitter. "That business with Bill Richardson was inexcusable. John must have been horrified. What Bill became…. Such ugliness.”
Sarah saw Deke's shoulders straighten slightly. She’d read the files. That a colleague of John Knight’s had been directly responsible for Tank Sullivan’s death. It ate at the entire team, but it had to hurt Richardson’s friend, the admiral, even more.
"Sarah, stop hiding behind that screen and help me with the salad," Doc commanded, cutting through the gloom. "And someone tell me why there's still a 'Student Driver' magnet on that motorcycle in the garage."
"That's Finn's," the team called from the other room in unison.
