Sarah had transformed too. Her natural curls were pulled back so tight they disappeared under a severe bun and hair net. Heavy makeup altered her facial structure—contouring that made her cheekbones sharper, her nose different. She'd switched her regular glasses for thick black frames that belonged on a librarian from 1962. Somehow, Doc had managed to dim that vital light Sarah emitted.
She looked mousy. Completely overlook-able.
"I look like I'm about to audit someone very sternly," she muttered, checking her reflection.
"You look like someone who's invisible," Griff corrected. "That's the point."
Doc handed them both catering uniforms—black pants, white shirts, black vests with the Charleston Place logo. "You're Maria Gonzalez and James Murphy. Emergency replacements for the evening shift. You've worked three events this week, you hate your supervisor, and you just want to get through this shift without dropping anything."
"Shouldn't be hard," Sarah said, pinning her temporary name tag. "I actually do want to get through this without dropping anything."
Through his earpiece, Finn's voice: "We're making progress on the auto-trigger. Zara's found three of the seven authentication nodes. The system needs seven different confirmations to activate. We're dismantling them one by one. Playing whack-a-mole. Blindfolded."
"And on fire," Zara added. "Don't forget the fire part."
Doc checked her tablet. "Shift change in fifteen minutes. Kitchen entrance will have maximum traffic. Perfect cover."
Sarah closed her laptop, securing it in a serving bag that would pass for catering supplies. USB drives were hidden in her shoes, bra, and even sewn into the vest lining—Doc's innovation.
"Remember," Doc said, "tired and bitter, but not memorable. You're furniture that happens to move."
"I've been furniture before," Sarah said. "Pick any high-level staff meeting."
"Focus," Griff said, though her nervous humor was actually helping his own tension.
They climbed out of the truck two blocks from the Charleston Place. The evening air was thick with humidityand the sound of sirens—the city on edge after the day's chaos.
"Comm check," Ronan's voice.
"Ghost copies."
"Bear Spray copies," Sarah said, using her call sign for the first time. It fit.
They walked toward the service entrance, joining a stream of exhausted-looking catering staff heading in for the evening shift. Sarah adopted a slight limp, favoring her still-tender ankle while making it look like feet tired from too many shifts.
"Looking good," Maya reported from her overwatch position. "Stillwater goons are barely checking badges."
The service entrance loomed ahead. The same guards from this morning, but now they looked harried, overwhelmed. Perfect.
"Next group," one guard called, barely glancing at badges.
They filed past in a clump of other workers. Griff kept his head down, shoulders slumped. Just another invisible servant in the machine. He shouldered his way through the swinging doors.
The kitchen was in full chaos. Evening prep in full swing, chefs screaming, servers colliding, the controlled catastrophe of a high-end event.
"You two." A supervisor pointed at them. "Where have you been?"
"Traffic," Sarah mumbled. "That thing with the terrorists..."
"Don't care. Champagne needs to go up for the reception. Ballroom level. Move."
They grabbed a cart loaded with champagne bottles, using it as cover to navigate through the kitchen. Griff memorized the layout—exits, blind spots, potential weapons.
"Distraction alpha in thirty seconds," Izzy announced through comms.
They pushed the cart toward the service elevator. Right on cue, a fire alarm started shrieking in the east wing. Not enough to evacuate, but enough to pull security that direction.
Griff pushed the down button. The elevator descended to the basement level.
