He starts the engine. We pull back onto the road.
The silence swallows us whole.
The motel appears around nine o’clock.
It’s the kind of place that takes cash and doesn’t ask questions. Peeling paint, the color of old teeth. A neon sign with half the letters burned out: VAC N Y. A parking lot full of long-haul trucks and the kind of quiet desperation that clings to roadside America like mold.
“We need to get off the road.” Diego’s voice is flat. Operational. “Phoenix will have the highway grid locked down by morning.”
He parks in the back, away from the office windows. Cuts the engine.
“Stay.”
Once again, he’s gone before I can respond.
I watch him through the dirty windshield—the controlled stride, the way his shoulders stay rigid even when there’s no visible threat. He’s still in combat mode. Still running calculations I can’t see.
He returns five minutes later with a key card. Old-fashioned plastic, the kind with a magnetic stripe that’s probably been copied a thousand times.
“Room 12. Ground floor.”
The room is exactly what I expect. Stained carpet that might have been beige once. A TV bolted to the dresser with a chain thick enough to tow a car. Heavy curtains that smell like cigarette smoke and regret. A bathroom door that doesn’t quite close.
One bed.
Diego clears the room like it’s a hostile zone—checks the bathroom, the closet, the window locks, the space under the bed. Old habits. Operational muscle memory.
When he’s satisfied, he turns to face me.
The door clicks shut behind us.
The silence is different now. Heavier. Charged with hours of compressed fury, looking for an outlet.
I know what’s coming. The reckoning I’ve been bracing for since Philadelphia. Since I logged into that computer and lit a flare for Phoenix to follow.
“Diego—”
“Do you have any idea what you did?”
His voice is controlled. Barely. The calm before detonation.
“I found a lead.” My own voice comes out steadier than I feel. “A real lead. Stratton’s signature on biological assets?—”
“You painted a target on our position.” He steps closer. “You handed Phoenix our exact coordinates.”
“I thought I was being careful?—”
“You thought.” Another step. The space between us shrinks. “You thought. That’s the problem. You’re not trained for this. You don’t get to think. You follow protocol. My. Protocol.”
“Like I said earlier, I’m not your soldier to command.”
“No.” His voice drops, dangerous. “You’re my responsibility. And you almost got yourself killed. You almost got us both killed.”
“But I didn’t.” I hold my ground. “We’re here. We’re alive. And I found something?—”
“You found a trail of breadcrumbs that led a kill team straight to our door.” His voice rises. Cracks. “You logged into a monitored system from a traceable IP address. You might as well have sent Phoenix an engraved invitation.”
“I was on a public network. Hotel Wi-Fi. Millions of people?—”
