Sarah pulls up Victoria's file from our intelligence database, reviewing her known associations and contract history. "She’s provided warnings about Committee operations. Sold us intelligence that helped shut down three of their trafficking networks."
"And now she's running dead drops with their compromised warehouse supervisor." I lean against the table, studying the photos. "Either she's been playing us the whole time, or something changed."
Sarah's fingers fly across the keyboard, cross-referencing Victoria's recent activities against known Committee operations. The software churns through data, searching for patterns that might explain why an independent broker who famously refuses Committee work would suddenly be meeting with their assets.
No matches appear. No connections to Committee operations, no contracts that would explain the contact with Masters, nothing in her recent activity suggesting she's changed her operational loyalties.
"This doesn't make sense," Sarah says quietly, staring at the screen. "Victoria's entire reputation is built on refusing Committee contracts. She loses credibility with every other client if she starts working for them."
"Unless they're paying enough to make the credibility loss worth it." I pull up the timeline of Committee operations we've disrupted over the last year. "Or unless they have leverage we don't know about."
Sarah goes still, attention fixed on something in Victoria's file. "Or unless we're reading this wrong."
"What do you mean?"
She turns the laptop toward me, showing Victoria's known associates and client list. "What if she wasn't picking up intelligence from Masters? What if she was delivering something to him?"
The possibility shifts everything. Dead drops work both directions. We assumed Victoria was collecting information Masters had stolen from the warehouse, but what if the exchange went the other way? What if Victoria was providing Masters with something from the Committee?
"If she was delivering," I say slowly, "then Masters isn't just feeding them intelligence. He's receiving instructions or equipment or something else that requires in-person transfer."
"Which means the leak is more sophisticated than we thought." Sarah closes the laptop, exhaustion and concern warring in her expression. "And Victoria's involvement suggests the Committee is coordinating operations at a level we haven't seen before."
Or Victoria is running her own intelligence game, playing multiple sides against each other while maintaining her reputation as an independent broker. Either way, we need answers only she can provide.
My blood runs cold at the implications.
12
SARAH
Kane's office feels smaller than usual, the walls pressing in as his stare pins me to the chair across from his desk. Overhead lighting casts harsh shadows across his face, turning his expression into hard angles. Micah stands beside me, arms crossed, every line of his posture radiating focus.
We got back to Echo Base barely an hour ago. We drove through the night, reported to Kane immediately, handed over the surveillance photos and our preliminary findings. Now comes the part where he tears into us for escalating beyond our authorized scope without calling for backup.
"You want to explain," Kane says, voice level and flat, "why you left your surveillance position to actively tail Masters into Kalispell without requesting tactical support?"
My spine straightens. "Because Masters received an encrypted Committee message and immediately left the warehouse. If we'd stopped to coordinate backup, we would have lost him."
"So you made a tactical decision." It's not a question. Kane's fingers tap once against the desk surface. "To pursue an activetarget. Into an urban environment. Without tactical support or extraction protocols."
"We had protocols." Micah's voice is steady. "Extraction routes, emergency signals, secure communications."
Kane's gaze cuts to him. "You were operating alone. Two operators, one vehicle, tracking a potentially hostile asset into terrain where Committee response teams could intercept. If they'd boxed you in somewhere without forest cover, you'd be dead or captured right now."
The words land with precision because they're true. We came close. Too close. The SUVs had us bracketed on the highway, and if I hadn't driven like physics was optional, we might not have made it to the forest service roads.
If Micah hadn't mapped every extraction route before we left the cabin, we wouldn't have known which turns to take.
"But we're not dead," I say. "We're here with proof that the Committee knows we're investigating their intelligence network. We identified a compromised communication channel. We have surveillance photos of Victoria Cross making contact with Masters."
Kane leans back in his chair. "Cross." His voice goes flat in a way that suggests he's processing something he doesn't want to believe. "You're telling me she met with a compromised warehouse supervisor."
"We have photos." Micah pulls up the images on his tablet, turns the screen toward Kane. "She picked up a package from Masters at the coffee shop. Dead drop, clean execution. Committee communications activated moments after she left."
Studying the images, Kane's expression doesn't shift. Command has taught him to process information without revealing reaction. "You verified her identity?"
"Facial recognition confirmed." My laptop sits on Kane's desk, showing the database match. "It's Cross."
