It doesn't make the waiting easier.
Harper had assigned me to build the case on a suspected Committee cell operating out of a logistics company in Baltimore. The intercept patterns suggest they're moving more than shipping containers. I spend weeks tracking their communications, until I have enough evidence to justify field surveillance.
When the operation goes live, I push to be included. It's my case, my analysis that got us here. Harper assigns me to monitor the intercepts in real-time from the surveillance van—analytical support, not field work, he emphasizes. I'mthere to identify voices, flag communications patterns, provide immediate assessment if anything breaks.
That's when everything goes wrong.
The surveillance van is parked blocks from the logistics warehouse, cameras feeding encrypted data back to Fort Meade. Standard operation. I've done this dozens of times. Except this time, when I climb into the back of the van for my shift, I notice something that makes my analyst brain scream warnings.
The equipment has been moved. Not much, centimeters maybe, but enough that I can see the dust patterns underneath don't match.
Someone's been in here.
I'm reaching for my phone to abort when the van door slides open and I'm staring down the barrel of a gun held by a man I recognize from Committee surveillance photos.
"Don't move," he says in accented English.
I freeze, hands visible, mind racing through options. The panic button on my phone is too far to reach. The weapon I'm qualified on is locked in a case behind me. The surveillance equipment can't help me.
"Out of the van. Slowly."
I comply because arguing with armed men rarely ends well for the unarmed analyst. Two more operatives flank him, both carrying weapons, both watching me with cold precision. They're not street thugs. These are trained operatives who know exactly what they're doing.
Committee, probably. Or worse. Either way, this is bad.
They move me to a vehicle, zip tie my wrists, shove a hood over my head. I try to catalog details during transport, but the hood and my own adrenaline make tracking time impossible. Urban sounds giving way to industrial. When they finally remove the hood, I'm in a warehouse that could be anywhere in the greater Baltimore area.
"Sarah Andrews." The man who spoke in the van steps forward, consulting a tablet. "NSA signals intelligence analyst. Recently specializing in Committee communication patterns." He looks up, smiles. "You've been busy."
I don't respond. Standard interrogation protocol says give nothing.
"Your section chief was less cooperative," he continues conversationally. "Harper. Took several hours before he finally shared your name."
Harper. The word hits like a fist. Harper.
"He didn't survive the interrogation." The leader says it like he's discussing the weather. "But you will. For now." He nods to one of his operatives. "Make sure she understands the consequences of non-cooperation."
The first hit catches me across the face hard enough to snap my head sideways. The second doubles me over, knocking the air from my lungs. They're systematic about it, methodical, working me over with the efficiency of professionals who've done this before.
When they're finished, I'm bleeding from a split lip, ribs screaming, vision blurred. But I'm alive, and I'm conscious, which means they want information more than they want me dead.
"Now," the leader says, pulling up a chair. "Let's discuss what you know about our operations."
I give him nothing. Every question is met with silence or name, rank, agency identification. Basic resistance training that feels inadequate when facing operatives who clearly know what they're doing.
After several hours, he stands abruptly. "Take her to holding. We'll try again later."
They move me to a smaller room, remove the zip ties, lock the door. I immediately assess my surroundings with what'sleft of my analytical capability. Concrete walls. Single door. No windows. Security camera in the corner. A cot with a thin mattress. Toilet in the corner with no privacy.
I'm in serious trouble.
My ribs hurt with every breath, my face throbs where they hit me, and I'm pretty sure I have a concussion based on the way the room wobbles when I try to stand. But I'm alive, and as long as I'm alive, I can find a way out.
My phone is gone, probably taken during transport. Standard protocol means I have backup options, but the Committee operatives were thorough in their search. Too thorough. They found and disabled everything.
Which brings me to the desperate option I've been avoiding. The emergency protocol that's supposed to reach Micah through dead drops and cutouts, the one I'm only supposed to use if everything else fails.
Everything else has failed.
