Silence fills the conference room. The atmosphere is heavy, charged with implications that have nothing to do with security and everything to do with two years of silence and grief and anger that hasn't been addressed.
Sarah finally looks at me. I see her fury barely contained beneath controlled distance. "Then we work it together." Each word is sharp enough to draw blood. "All business. You know Committee networks. I know signals. We cross-reference and find whoever's selling us out."
"Roger."
"And the history we have," she continues, each word precise and deliberate, "stays separate from this investigation. We're professionals. We do the job. We don't let emotions compromise what needs to happen."
She's drawing lines, establishing boundaries. Making it clear that working together means nothing beyond two operatives doing their jobs despite the history between them.
I can live with that. Have to live with that, because she's right. The mission comes first. Finding the leak before it gets someone killed comes first. Everything else is secondary.
"Copy that," I say.
Kane watches this exchange with an expression that says he's not entirely convinced we can maintain distance, but he's willing to let us try. "Sarah's been running the preliminary investigation solo. She has a list of potential sources and suspicious communication patterns. You'll work together to trace the intelligence flow, identify the leak, and determine if this is intentional betrayal or unwitting compromise."
He stands, signaling the briefing is complete. "Tommy will provide technical support and forensic analysis. I'll coordinate with our external contacts to verify their security protocols without alerting anyone that we're investigating. You two focus on finding the leak."
Kane heads for the door, then pauses with his hand on the frame. "Sarah's right. History stays separate from this investigation. You're both professionals. Act like it."
He leaves us alone in the conference room. Sarah and I, sitting across from each other with years of silence and a compromised intelligence network between us.
She closes her tablet and stands. "We start tomorrow morning. Oh-six-hundred. My workspace. Bring everything you have on Committee communication networks and intelligence gathering methods. We'll cross-reference with my analysis and start building a profile of whoever's feeding them information."
"Roger."
She's halfway to the door when she stops. She won't turn around, just stands there with her back to me, tension radiating through her posture.
"I read your message," she says quietly. "Trust no one outside the team. Good advice. I'm following it."
Then she walks out, leaving me alone in the conference room with the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the air like smoke.
I gather my equipment and head for my quarters. Tomorrow morning I'll be working in close proximity with a woman who hates me for reasons I understand and accept. The investigation will force us into situations where distance becomes impossible and the past we're both trying to ignore demands acknowledgment.
The Committee files are waiting on my tablet. The contact's face. Reeve's intelligence. Webb's network spreading like cancer through channels we thought were secure.
They identified Sarah as exploitable, found personal complications they think they can leverage against Echo Ridge.
Whoever's feeding intelligence to Webb thinks they're protected. Anonymous. Safe behind encryption and dead drops.
They made Sarah the target.
That was their first mistake. I'm going to make sure it's their last one, and that starts tomorrow at oh-six-hundred.
8
SARAH
Oh-six-hundred arrives sharp and unforgiving.
I'm already at my workspace when Micah walks through the door, punctual to the second. His field notes are organized, his expression neutral. We're acting like strangers assigned to a routine case instead of two people whose history could destroy us both if we let it.
My coffee's gone cold in the past hour while I've been compiling data on our internal network. I've pulled communication logs, contact profiles, pattern analysis. Work that kept me awake most of the night because sleep means stopping, and stopping means thinking about things that aren't the mission.
"Morning," he says, voice low and even.
I keep my eyes on my screen. "Close the door. This stays compartmentalized."
He does, then crosses to the analysis table where I've set up the secure terminal. His movements are controlled, deliberate, radiating the same coiled tension I remember from meetings at the NSA when he'd analyze intelligence with that quiet intensity that meant he was three steps ahead of everyone else.
