Time: 0846 Hours
Ronan thinks I’m reviewing the false retaliation.
I let him.
The truth is, I’m watching the spacesbetweenit.
Malenkov’s burns are loud—too loud. Everyone with a badge or a budget is staring at the fires, the ambushes, the collapsing shell sites.
Which means no one is watching the quiet channels.
That’s where Jonah disappears.
He doesn’t think we know what he’s doing.
It takes me twenty minutes.
Then I see it.
A single transport authorization pushed through a humanitarian subcontractor—no weapons, no escorts, no red flags. Just a “medical relocation.”
I feel cold all over.
“Jonah.”
I don’t tell Ronan yet.
Not because I don’t trust him—but because I know what he’ll do if I’m wrong.
I need certainty.
I dig deeper.
Satellite timestamps don’t match road conditions. The vehicle “should” be moving faster. Which means it isn’t.
Rail-adjacent.
Subterranean. Underground.
I pull historic maps and overlay them with the current thermal bleed.
There.
A spur line that shouldn’t exist anymore.
But it does.
And it’s active.
My pulse accelerates—not fear, not panic.
Focus.
I reroute traffic cams along the projected path, bouncing through civilian feeds, agricultural sensors, weather stations—anything Malenkov wouldn’t bother sanitizing.
A single frame catches it.
A convoy moving under the cover of darkness.
