The beam cuts through the darkness, illuminating a reception area that looks like it was abandoned mid-shift. A desk with a computer monitor—dark, the tower missing entirely. A coffee mug with dried residue at the bottom, a ring staining the fake wood. A jacket draped over the back of a chair, like someone meant to come back for it.
“They left fast,” I say.
“Within hours. Maybe less.” Diego moves past the desk, checking the hallway beyond. “Computer’s gone—they took the drives. But they didn’t have time to clean up the personal effects.”
I look at the jacket. Navy blue. A woman’s cut, based on the shoulders. A security badge is still clipped to the lapel—the photo shows a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and gray-streaked hair. The name reads: PATRICIA HOLLOWAY, RESEARCH COORDINATOR.
I wonder if Patricia Holloway is still alive. I wonder if Phoenix let her run, or if she’s already a body in a ditch somewhere, staged to look like an accident.
“This way.” Diego’s voice pulls me back.
We move deeper into the building. The hallway stretches ahead, doors on either side—offices, most of them, with plaques identifying their former occupants. DR. MARCUS WEBB, CLINICAL TRIALS. DR. SARAH CHEN, GENETIC ANALYSIS. DIRECTOR’S OFFICE.
The Director’s office door is open. Diego checks the corners, then waves me in.
“Look for anything with Stratton’s name. Financial records. Communications. Anything that ties this facility to Nexus.”
I nod and start searching.
The office is large—corner unit, windows that would overlook the mountains in daylight. The desk is mahogany, expensive, completely wrong for a prefab industrial building. Someone wanted to feel important here. Someone wanted to pretend this was a legitimate operation.
The desk drawers are empty. The filing cabinet is locked, but the lock is cheap—Diego pops it in seconds with a tool I don’t recognize. Inside: nothing. Empty folders. Hanging files with no contents.
“They cleaned out the paper trail.”
“Most of it.” Diego is at the computer station, examining the cables. “But they were rushed. Check the trash.”
The trash can is one of those mesh wire things, decorative more than functional. Inside: crumpled papers, a takeout container with dried rice stuck to the cardboard, and …
“Diego.”
He’s beside me in an instant.
I smooth out the crumpled paper. It’s a memo, printed on letterhead that reads ECHO LOGISTICS in bland corporate font. The text is partially visible despite the wrinkles:
… transfer of all COMPONENT samples to PRIMARY SITE must be completed by …
… Director Stratton has authorized emergency protocols …
… Nevada facility confirms receipt of initial shipment. Power requirements: 1.2 GIGAWATTS. Full integration with HYDROELECTRIC INFRASTRUCTURE expected within …
The rest is torn away.
“Nevada,” Diego says. “That’s where they’re taking it.”
“The primary site. Whatever they were doing here, it was just—preparation. Testing.” I look at the memo again. “Power requirements. 1.2 Gigawatts? That’s insane. That’s enough to power a city.”
“Or a supercomputer.” He takes the memo, photographs it with a small camera from his pack. “Phoenix needs energy—massive amounts of it—to reconstitute after Chicago. Server farms. Processing power. The kind of infrastructure you can’t run on a diesel generator.”
“A dam.” The word hits me. “Hydroelectric infrastructure. They’re going to the Hoover Dam.”
“Close. But Hoover is too public. Too monitored.” He pockets the camera. “There are other dams in Nevada. Private ones. Or military. Let’s keep moving.”
The hallway branches at the building’s center. Left leads to administrative offices—more empty desks, more abandoned coffee cups, the detritus of people who thought they were doing legitimate work. Right leads to a heavy door marked RESEARCH WING - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
The door has a keypad lock. The light is green.
“Disabled,” Diego says. “Like the fence sensor.”
