She's fine. She's working through the files. She doesn't need to check in.
Part of him wanted her to anyway. Wanted that little vibration against his leg, wanted to see her name on the screen, wanted proof that she was okay even though he knew she was.
"Blocked number," Echo said. "Encryption's military-grade. NSA-level stuff."
"Break it," Ghost ordered.
More keystrokes, faster now. Ghost could hear Echo's breathing change, the slight catch when he was concentrating hard. The truck's interior filled with the sound of typing and the quiet whir of cooling fans trying to keep the equipment from overheating.
Then, faint and distant through layers of digital processing, Carver's voice filtered through Echo's speakers: "No changes. Orders stand. We move when it's secure."
The call ended. Silence except for the ambient street noise filtering through the cracked windows.
Ghost's fingers drummed once against the steering wheel. Just once.
Carver was waiting for something. A signal. Confirmation. A green light from someone higher up the chain.
They still had time. Not much. But enough.
"Target's mobile again," Rogue reported. "Still clean. But that wasn't a social call."
"Copy," Ghost said. "Maintain distance. Don't spook him."
Movement across the street pulled his attention. The building's front door opened and Hale stepped out.
Dark blazer. Gray slacks. Leather briefcase that probably cost more than Ghost's monthly salary. He looked like every other government contractor heading to a morning meeting, polished, professional, completely unremarkable. You could pass him on the street and forget him five seconds later.
Ghost's pulse didn't change. Stayed steady at sixty-two beats per minute, the same rate he maintained during most ops. "Hale's moving. I've got him."
Torch closed his laptop without a word, reached for the camera bag wedged between his feet and the center console. They'd done this run enough times that they didn't need to discuss it.
Hale walked to a black SUV parked at the curb, government plates, tinted windows, and climbed into the driver's seat.
Ghost waited. Let the engine turn over. Let Hale check his mirrors, adjust his seat, pull his seatbelt across his chest. Let him pull into traffic.
Then Ghost counted two cars. Let them pass. A silver sedan. A white Honda.
Then he pulled out, three cars back, staying in the right lane while Hale occupied the left.
Twenty minutes later, Echo's voice crackled through the earpiece. "Langley and Carver just converged. Private banking building, east tower. They're in a conference room together. Fourth floor, corner office."
Ghost processed while navigating through midday traffic. The street smelled like exhaust fumes and hot asphalt, sunlight finally burning through the fog and turning everything harsh and bright. He squinted, wished he'd grabbed his sunglasses from the center console, didn't take his eyes off Hale's SUV three cars ahead. "Confirmed visual?"
"Affirmative. Predator and Rogue have eyes through the window. No files visible. No laptops. Just talking."
Face to face. In person. No digital trail.
Smart.
"Log it," Ghost said. "Get photos if you can do it clean. Don't risk exposure."
Hale's SUV turned east, heading toward the bridge that split the city from the industrial corridor. Ghost followed, his hands loose on the wheel, his brain working through the angles.
Langley handled logistics. They knew that from the procurement records Rachel had pulled. Hale had the financial access, banking codes, wire transfer authorities, high-level approvals to move money without triggering audits or compliance reviews.
And Carver had the operational knowledge. The credentials. The access to systems that were supposed to be locked down six ways from Sunday.
Together, they were a perfect machine for moving weapons off the books.
