"Where Buckley will be," Griff added. "Where David Pemberton will be."
Sarah's fingers stilled at her exe’s name, then resumed their flight across the keys.
"All units, new mission," Ronan commanded. "We're running three operations simultaneously. Team One—Finn, Zara, Kenji—you're disabling the auto-trigger remotely. Has to be done before seven-fifteen."
"On it," Finn confirmed.
"Team Two—Griff and Sarah infiltrate during shift change, access the server room, identify and disable the dead man's switch."
"Copy," Griff said.
"Team Three—everyone else creates chaos. Multiple distractions. Keep security running in circles."
"My kind of party," Izzy said.
"I'll be mobile command," Doc added. "Coordinating all three operations."
Sarah looked up from her screens. "The financial authorizations show forty-seven payments scheduled for seven-fifteen. But the dead man's switch shows the same forty-seven plus ten more."
"Ten more targets?" Griff asked.
"Not targets." Sarah's face was grim. "Clean-up crews. People hired to eliminate evidence after the primary assassinations." She pulled up the list. "Including Knight Tactical. All of you."
The comm channel erupted in curses.
"They're going to kill the killers," Maya said. "No witnesses."
"More reason to stop both systems," Griff said. He looked at Sarah. "You ready for this?"
"No." She managed a weak smile. "But that's never stopped us before."
Doc parked the truck. "Thirty minutes to transform you both. Then may God help us all."
"Amen," came from multiple voices on the comm.
Griff found himself not flinching from the prayer. In less than four hours, they'd either stop a massacre or die trying.
Tank would have loved these odds.
"All units, prep for evening operations," Ronan commanded. "We get one shot at this."
The clock on the dashboard showed 15:52. In three hours and twenty-three minutes, forty-seven people would die unless they stopped it.
Time to go to work.
"Shift change in fifty-three minutes," Doc announced, pulling out hair dye and makeup. "We transform you in twenty, you're in position by thirty, infiltrating at forty-five."
"Cutting it close," Ronan said through comms.
Griff held Sarah’s gaze from across the van. "Close is all we've got."
31
Griff barely recognizedhimself in the truck's mirror. Doc had worked her magic—his blonde military cut now dark brown, almost black, and styled forward to change his face shape. Brown contacts replaced his gray-blue eyes. Temporary prosthetics altered his nose and jawline enough to throw off casual recognition.
Sarah observed from her seat, struggling with a flat iron. "Outstanding work, Doc. He looks like he sells insurance and hates his life."
"Perfect for catering staff," Doc said, adjusting his collar. "Now hold still." She applied something to his eyebrows, darkening and thickening them.
