The lift ride down is too smooth. Mirrors on three sides, soft music trying to convince me nothing sharp ever happens here. I keep my eyes forward. Habit. Reflections give too much away.
Reception is quiet. Different shift. Fresh faces. No recognition.
Good.
I give the room number – Bones’ room – and confirm the extension he arranged earlier. The receptionist checks the screen, nods, says nothing. This hotel is very good at not asking questions.
Then she pauses.
“There’s a delivery for you,” she says, reaching under the counter. “For a Mr. Beckett Graves.”
My stomach tightens just enough to notice.
“I’ll take it.”
She slides a small padded envelope across the desk. Plain. No branding. No return address. Bones’ name written in block letters that don’t try to look like handwriting.
I don’t ask where it came from.
I pocket it and leave.
I don’t open it in the lift. I don’t open it in the corridor. I open it only once I’m back inside the second room, door shut, deadbolt thrown.
Inside: a cheap burner, still sealed; a slim, matte-grey device the length of my hand, unlabelled; a black, blank credit card with no discernible numbers; and a folded slip of paper.
Assume the signal’s hot.
Scanner is passive.
Use only when awake.
I don’t turnanything on. I set the contents on the desk exactly as they came, then step back.
Bones looks over at me like he already knows. He takes the envelope from me without comment and empties it onto thedesk, movements precise. His mouth tightens – not surprise. Confirmation.
Ghost’s already there, arms crossed, eyes on the scanner. “That fast?”
Snow’s jaw tightens. “So scan her. Now.”
“No,” Bones replies.
“That’s not a suggestion,” Snow snaps. “If she’s tagged, we’re sitting ducks. Every second we wait?—”
“—is a second we don’t spook whoever’s watching,” Bones cuts in. Calm. Flat. “Tex wouldn’t send this if we were on a countdown.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know how Branson and The Order works. Tex will be the same.”
Snow gestures at the scanner. “Then why include it?”
“Because control matters,” Bones says. “Timing matters.”
Ghost leans against the wall, eyes unfocused. “If they’re collecting data,” he says quietly, “a premature scan changes the dataset.”
Snow turns on him. “She’s not a dataset.”
“No,” Ghost agrees. “She’s the variable.”
