Their engine started. Its headlights never engaged. After a moment, the van pulled away and disappeared into the night.
“Base, mobile,” I reported. “The van is gone. Charge is in place. No read on detonator.”
“Mobile, base. Move to your secondary target.”
“Copy.”
Eddie returned a few minutes later. We pulled out of the alley and headed west toward the communications hub near the university.
Behind us, the power station hummed on, oblivious to the bomb infecting its heart.
01:30.
“Base, primary. Main bay is dark. West side active.”
Then Thomas’s voice: “West side. Very active. Seventy-plus photographs. Heavy traffic, heavy equipment. Teams are prepping to move.”
I let out a breath.
Seventy photographs.
He was doing his job and building the evidencewe needed.
More importantly, he was staying hidden and safe . . . for once.
“Base, mobile,” I reported. “En route to secondary.”
“Copy all,” the Baroness said. “Next check-in at 02:00.”
The communications hub was twelve minutes away.
Danny drove carefully, obeying every traffic law, giving no one a reason to look at us twice. Eddie sat in the passenger seat, reloading his camera, his movements quick and precise.
“How many shots you have left?” he asked.
“Half a roll. Maybe eighteen.”
“Should be enough.” He glanced at me.
We reached the communications hub at 01:44.
They didn’t make us wait long.
They came in two vehicles, a truck and a sedan. They didn’t bother being subtle or cloaking themselves in darkness.
The truck rammed through the facility’s front gate at 01:52.
The sedan followed close behind, disgorging men with weapons and equipment before the guards could respond.
I heard shouting, saw flashlights cutting through the darkness, and watched as the Order’s people swarmed across the grounds.
“Jesus,” Danny breathed.
I was already photographing.
The truck. The sedan. The men pouring out, their faces caught in my viewfinder.
License plates, weapons, the systematic way they moved toward the main building.
