She signed a logistics contract for a shell company in West Virginia.
Why?
I scroll up. Look at the Scope of Services.
“Provision of secure transport and cold storage for biological assets: Class 4.”
Biological assets. Class 4?
That’s not logistics. That’s a hazmat run. Viruses? Pathogens?
A bit of digging brings up ML-273.
I reach for the print button—then stop. No paper trail.
I need to memorize it. 1402 Blackwood Road, Terra Alta, WV.
I close the window. Log out. Clear the browser history. That should be good, right?
I stand, knees shaking. I have it. I have a link. A connection. It should be worth something, right?
I turn to leave.
And the computer screen behind me flickers.
It turns black.
Then, a spinning wheel appears—unusual for a fiber connection. It pulses like a heartbeat skipping.
I wait. Five seconds. Ten.
Then, text types out slowly, letter by letter, as if the sender is thinking hard before speaking.
H-E-L-L-O C-A-S-S-A-N-D-R-A.
My blood turns to ice.
I didn’t log into a personal account. I logged into the firm’s server.
Phoenix wasn’t watching me. It was watching the data. It flagged the access to the Echo file.
LOCATION CONFIRMED: LOEWS HOTEL.
IP ADDRESS: 192.168.1.14
DISPATCHING.
I stumble back, knocking the chair over. It crashes loudly in the quiet room.
Dispatching.
I run.
I sprint out of the Business Center. Hit the elevator button.
Come on. Come on.
The doors open. I jam the button for the 5th floor.
