The next file opens before conscious thought. Buyer_List_Confirmed.
Organization names. Country codes. Entity designations. I watch international news religiously, read journals, follow geopolitical developments because my work touches global health crises. These names don't trigger specific recognition, but the pattern is unmistakable.
Al-Nidal East Africa Cell. The designation structure matches militant organizations I've seen referenced in security briefings. Águila Roja Logistics—the naming convention typical of Latin American cartel operations. Three entries showing country codes for nations currently under international weapons sanctions. Obsidian Strategic Solutions—a private military contractor name that sounds like dozens I've read about in investigative journalism pieces on mercenary operations in conflict zones.
Each entry shows: deposit amount, delivery timeline, compound specifications matched to payload capacity.
They're selling my work. Selling it to people who will use it to kill thousands.
Shaking takes over my hands so completely I have to grip the edge of Emil's desk. The man who smiled at me over coffee this morning. Who praised my breakthrough last week. Who I trusted absolutely.
Was any of it real?
Bile rises but focus cuts through nausea. Evidence. Without evidence, this is just my word against theirs, and these people—whoever they are—have resources I can only imagine. Money. Power. The kind that makes whistleblowers disappear.
My encrypted drive sits in my laptop across the lab. Personal storage, separate from the facility's network. Bought precisely because cloud systems can't be trusted with my research.
Each step back across the white floor echoes too loud in the silent space. My laptop waits where I left it, screen dark, innocent.
The connection to Emil's shared access opens easily. Files start copying.
Everything. Buyer lists. Modified specifications. Email chains discussing "product delivery" and "payload customization." Financial records showing deposits in the millions. Communication logs with contacts in countries that shouldn't have access to this technology.
Months of conspiracy downloading onto a drive small enough to fit in my pocket.
The progress bar crawls. Sixty percent. Seventy. My eyes keep jumping to the lab's entrance. Security makes rounds regularly. Last pass was a while ago. Time's running out.
Eighty-five percent.
Come on. Come on.
Footsteps echo in the hallway outside.
My heart stops. Too early for the scheduled round. Too heavy for the cleaning crew.
Ninety-two percent.
The footsteps pause outside the door. A keycard beeps. The magnetic lock disengages with a sharp click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet.
Ninety-eight percent.
Emil walks in.
He freezes when he sees me standing at my laptop. His gaze flicks to his glowing workstation across the lab. Back tome. Understanding dawns across familiar features—the mentor I trusted now looks like a stranger.
"Isabella." His voice stays carefully neutral. "Working late?"
"I could ask you the same thing." My hand hovers near my laptop, not quite touching the encrypted drive. "Thought you had your daughter's recital."
"Ended early. She wasn't feeling well." He moves into the lab slowly, carefully, the way you approach a spooked animal. "What’s going on?"
Ninety-nine percent.
"Your computer was running processes that slowed my work. Just checking if you'd left something intensive running." The lie comes easily. Too easily. My mother would be proud—years of navigating French society taught me to smile while lying through my teeth.
Emil's eyes narrow slightly. Calculating. Weighing whether to believe me.
One hundred percent. Download complete.
