"Someone's creating a paper trail." Sarah's fingers flew across keyboards. "These are payments to Knight Tactical from known terrorist organizations. The transactions started eight minutes ago."
"Can you stop them?"
"I can document them. Track them. But stop?" She shook her head. "They're using legitimate banking protocols with high-level authorization codes."
Doc moved closer, studying the data flow. "These aren't random amounts. Look—they're structured to trigger federal monitoring thresholds. Someone knows exactly how to make you look guilty to automated systems."
Through his earbuds, Griff heard Ronan: "Ghost, what's your status?"
"Buckley's not just moving early—he's framing us. Financial trail being created as we speak."
Silence on the comms. Then Ronan: "We abort."
"No." Sarah grabbed Griff's arm, activating his throat mic so everyone could hear. "If you run now, this frame job becomes fact. These transactions require two-factor authentication. Someone has to physically approve them from inside the hotel. They're there right now. I can track them backward, but I need time."
"How much time?" Ronan asked.
Sarah was already deep in her screens. "Give me ten minutes. Maybe less."
"You have five," Doc announced, checking her tablet. "My sources just pinged me—federal marshals are mobilizing three blocks out. Someone gave them your location." She pulled up a schematic of the Charleston Place. "But here's what they don't know—the hotel has service access through three adjoining buildings. Kitchen deliveries through Market Street, laundry services through the basement of the Riviera, and maintenance access via the old Charleston Bank building next door."
"Stillwater's only watching the main hotel entrances," Doc continued. "They're contractors, not strategists. Hammers, not scalpels."
"Maya, Izzy, you're on infiltration," Ronan commanded. "Use Doc's routes. Deke, Axel, create a distraction at the King Street entrance. Let them see you, draw their focus."
"Copy that." Deke's amusement was audible. "Haven't played decoy in years."
Doc handed Griff a tablet showing real-time positions. "I've been tracking their security rotations since dawn. They change posts every twenty minutes, but there's a forty-second gap when they swap. Your window's in six minutes."
Griff started reaching for his rifle, but Sarah caught his arm. "I need you here. Someone has to coordinate betweenwhat I'm finding and what the team's seeing. I don't know tactics."
"She's right," Doc agreed. "You're more valuable here as her translator. Let your team do what they do best."
Every instinct screamed at him to join his team in the field. But Sarah was right—leaving her was impossible.
"Ghost staying with command," he said into comms.
No one commented, but he sensed their understanding.
Sarah's screens filled with data streams. She moved through them like she was reading music, seeing patterns where others saw noise.
"There." She highlighted a terminal location. "Terminal 4B, second floor of the Charleston Place. Every transaction routes through there." She paused, frowning. "Wait. These authorization codes..."
"What?"
"The formatting. The routing preferences. The way the security protocols are layered." Her fingers froze over the keyboard. "I know this style."
"Style?"
"Everyone has patterns." Her face drained of color. "I trained someone in this exact methodology. At Treasury, before I moved to FBI."
Doc leaned over Sarah's shoulder. "Someone from your past? That's not coincidence, dear. That's targeting."
She pulled up the summit's attendee list with shaking hands, scrolling rapidly. "He wouldn't be listed as Treasury anymore. He left right after I did?—"
Her breath caught. "And now, he’s back. David Pemberton. Financial Advisor to Senator Buckley."
"Maya, approaching Terminal 4B," came through his earbuds. "Second floor, near the Palmetto Ballroom. There's someone here. Male, suit, brown hair, about six feet?—"
