There. Local Charleston station, breaking news banner: "Federal Marshals Conducting Anti-Terror Operation at Charleston Place Hotel."
"How did the press—" she started, then stopped. Of course. On another screen, she pulled up social media. David Pemberton's official account, posted two minutes ago: "Proud to assist federal authorities in protecting the summit from domestic threats. Security of our nation comes first!"
"That sanctimonious—" She cut herself off, took a breath. "David tipped them off. He wants this public."
"Axel, status?" Ronan's voice, tighter now.
"Stairwell blocked. Marshals on every floor." A pause. "I'm not going to make it out."
"We'll get you?—"
"No." Axel's voice was calm. "If I run, I look guilty. If they take me clean, we have a chance."
Sarah watched Griff's jaw clench. Every instinct would be screaming at him to act, to save his teammate. But Axel was right.
"Axel," Sarah said, loud enough for the comm to pick up. "Don't resist. Keep your hands visible. There will be cameras."
"Copy that." She heard him take a deep breath. "Tell Olivia?—"
"Tell her yourself when we get you out," Maya interrupted fiercely.
Sarah pulled up the hotel's security feeds—she might not be a hacker, but Finn had given her access codes. The lobby was swarming with federal agents. News crews were already set up outside. This wasn't an arrest; it was theater.
"There," she breathed.
On the screen, Axel walked into the lobby, hands raised but dignified. The marshals surrounded him immediately. She watched him drop to his knees, hands behind his head, making no aggressive moves even as they cuffed him roughly.
"Getting this recorded," she said, capturing every frame. "This is evidence of his cooperation."
Through the glass doors, she could see the news cameras catching everything. The marshals led Axel out, and even from the grainy feed, she could see his lips moving.
"What's he saying?" Griff asked.
Sarah enhanced the image, read his lips. "He's praying. The Twenty-Third Psalm."
Something shifted in Griff's expression—not quite faith, but recognition. Respect.
"I've got to get this evidence out," Sarah said, turning back to her screens. "Before they come for the rest of you."
She compiled everything—the fraudulent transactions, Pemberton's digital fingerprints, the timestamps showing theframe-up happening in real-time. Her fingers flew as she encrypted the file, then began sending it.
FBI Financial Crimes: Email bounced. "Address not recognized."
Inspector General: "Security protocol rejection."
DOJ Whistleblower Line: "Number disconnected."
"No," Sarah breathed, trying another. Then another. Every contact she'd built over five years at the FBI—gone. Blocked. Erased.
"He didn't just burn my bridges," she said, voice hollow. "He deleted them. I don't exist in the federal system anymore."
Her hand went unconsciously to Tank's dog tags beneath her shirt, drawing strength from their weight.
Doc appeared at her shoulder. "Try journalists."
"Already compromised," Sarah said, showing her a screen. "Look at the coverage."
Every news outlet showed the same story: "Domestic Terror Cell Discovered at Charleston Summit." Axel's military photo next to the word "TERRORIST." Knight Tactical described as a "rogue private military company with foreign ties."
