Except now I'm the threat. Or maybe the danger we're both trying to avoid acknowledging.
"Kane briefed you on the parameters?" I say, bringing up the first set of files. "We have full authorization to investigate the leak, but we're keeping it to you, me, Kane and Tommy for now. The fewer people who know we're investigating our external contacts, the less chance whoever's compromised catches wind of it."
"Agreed. Limited exposure reduces the chance whoever's compromised learns we're investigating."
His voice carries no inflection, no attempt to bridge the distance between us with anything approaching warmth or apology.
Good. His excuses mean nothing. The hell I’ve been through has made me far less understanding about the job and its fallout than I used to be. I refuse to hear about operational necessity or communications blackouts that somehow prevented him from sending one message in two years to tell me he wasn't dead.
The data is my focus now. Data doesn't lie. Data doesn't disappear for two years and then walk back into your life as if absence is something you can just ignore.
"Reeve's intercept is our starting point." The enhanced audio appears on the display. "He got closer to finding us than anyone has before. That level of precision requires either signals intercept of our communications or human intelligence from someone with direct knowledge."
Micah sets his tablet on the table, his own analysis already loaded. "The Committee doesn't have our communication protocols. I spent two years inside their networks and never saw evidence they'd cracked our encryption. Webb's pushed hard for signals intelligence capability, but his technical team can't break military-grade encryption without significant computational resources they don't have."
"Human intelligence, then. Someone talking."
"Someone with access."
We work in silence for several minutes, cross-referencing communication patterns with Committee activity timelines. My screens show signals intercepts and data flow. His show intelligence gathered during his time embedded in Webb's organization—names and faces of Committee operatives, network diagrams that map their structure with frightening detail.
Old analytical rhythms surface despite the tension crackling between us. I spot a pattern in the communication timing and open the relevant logs. He sees what I'm looking at and flags the corresponding Committee operations without me having to explain the connection.
We used to do this in DC. Late nights when we were tracking Committee financial networks together, CIA and NSA sitting across from each other at workstations while we built cases that dismantled money laundering operations piece by piece. He'd see patterns in the operational intelligence. I'd find the corresponding signals evidence. Together we could construct prosecutions that held up under the most aggressive legal scrutiny.
That was before. When I believed encrypted channels could protect what we had and promises actually meant something.
"Two potential sources." I display the profile files I compiled overnight. "Carlos Rodriguez, federal contact. Former FBI counterintelligence who got burned during a Committee investigation. We've cultivated him as a source for federal intelligence, reciprocal information sharing."
"What can he see?"
"More than most contacts would have. He knows general mission scope since we trade intelligence on Committeeactivities. Kane compartmentalizes carefully, but Rodriguez has enough context to infer operational patterns."
Micah leans back, arms crossed. "Motive?"
"Money. Blackmail. The Committee has resources for both. Rodriguez has a daughter with medical bills that insurance won't cover. Financial pressure makes people vulnerable."
"Webb would exploit that." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "He's methodical about identifying pressure points. Finds what someone values and uses it against them."
There's something in his voice that sounds personal. He's seen how Webb operates up close and the knowledge carved scars he's still carrying.
I refuse to ask. Knowing what he sacrificed or witnessed during those undercover assignments leads to questions about why it was necessary and whether any intelligence is worth the cost of disappearing completely.
"Victoria Cross." I load the file I've been dreading.
Silence fills the analysis room, heavy with implications neither of us wants to voice.
Victoria's our primary intelligence broker, the woman who sells information to anyone except the Committee. Her hatred for Webb runs deeper than her pragmatism. She's helped Echo Ridge with critical intelligence, warned us about operations, provided financial records that exposed Committee funding networks.
She's also smart enough to play both sides if the price justifies the risk.
"Victoria knows our operational patterns," I say, keeping my voice cold and detached. "She's brokered intelligence for multiple Echo Ridge operations. Has extensive knowledge of our external contact network, enough context to infer mission parameters and team composition."
"She loathes the Committee." Micah's tone is measured. "Webb killed her brother during a failed extraction. She's been bleeding them dry with intelligence leaks for years."
"People are complicated. Revenge doesn't preclude pragmatism, and Victoria's practical above everything else. If the Committee offered enough money or the right leverage, she might sell."
"You don't believe that."
