The confirmation of my suspicion does nothing to ease the concern building in my gut. "You shouldn't have come here. If the Reapers are monitoring?—"
"Tessa took every precaution," she interrupts. "Three vehicle switches, backtracking, the works. We weren't followed."
Her dismissal of the risk irritates me, though I recognize the source is concern rather than anger. "That's not the point. After what happened to Sophia?—"
"Exactly," she cuts in again. "After what happened to Sophia, we can't afford communication gaps or misunderstandings. The call came from someone who knew details about our operation. Someone with inside knowledge."
The implication lands heavily. "You think we have a leak."
"I think it's a possibility we can't ignore." She gestures toward the lodge. "Can we discuss this somewhere more private?"
Inside, I lead her to a small office off the main room where evidence processing continues. The space is sparse—just a desk, two chairs, and a battery-powered lamp casting shadows across rough wooden walls.
"Tell me exactly what the call said," I prompt once the door closes behind us.
"Male voice, digitally altered. Said 'They're expecting you. Primary targets relocated three hours ago.'" She recites the message with perfect recall. "Called on the landline, not a number anyone outside the club should have."
I process this, connecting it with our experience at the compound. "That matches what we found. Minimal personnel, evidence of hasty departure, but convenient documentation left behind."
"A setup?" she suggests, perching on the edge of the desk.
"Possibly. Or a controlled sacrifice." I pace the small space, thinking aloud. "Give up enough to satisfy us but protect their most valuable assets and information."
"Or lead you into a trap later," she adds, her expression darkening. "What if the evidence is bait? Get the club focused on technical decryption while they prepare something worse?"
The possibility hadn't occurred to me, but it makes tactical sense. Hargrove has demonstrated sophisticated strategic thinking throughout this conflict. False leads and misdirection would align with his approach.
"The warning call," I think aloud. "Anonymous but with inside knowledge. That suggests someone with access to our plans but unwilling to be identified."
"A reluctant traitor?" Cara suggests. "Or someone playing both sides?"
Before I can respond, a knock interrupts us. Ice Pick enters, excitement visible despite his exhaustion.
"You need to see this," he says, holding up a flash drive. "Found a hidden directory on one of the secondary servers. Transaction records with real names instead of codes."
He plugs the drive into a laptop on the desk, pulling up spreadsheets that confirm our worst suspicions. The trafficking operation extends beyond state lines, beyond the Reapers' territory, connecting to operations in at least five other states. And at the center of it all: William Hargrove, with personal sign-off on high-value "acquisitions" including notations about specific women.
"Is Cara in there?" I ask quietly.
Ice Pick hesitates, glancing at her before navigating to another section. "Yes. Listed as 'special acquisition - debt resolution' with Kane's authorization code."
Cara's expression remains neutral, though I notice her knuckles whitening as she grips the edge of the desk. "Any reference to current locations for recently moved women?"
Ice Pick scrolls through more files. "Nothing current. There's a shipping manifest scheduled for next week, but destinations are in that higher encryption level I can't access yet."
"Keep working on it," I instruct. "But be careful. There's concern this might be intentionally planted evidence."
After he leaves, silence falls between us. Cara stares at the closed laptop, lost in thoughts I can only imagine.
"I should be in there," she says finally. "Helping with the decryption, reviewing the evidence. I might recognize patterns others wouldn't."
"You've already contributed significantly," I remind her. "The server room location, the building layout—we wouldn't have found half of what we did without your input."
"But I'm still on the sidelines for the actual analysis." Frustration edges her voice. "I understand wanting to protect me from the worst of it, Falcon. But this is my fight too. More mine than anyone's."
I recognize the familiar territory we're entering—her desire for full involvement versus my instinct to shield her from additional trauma. It's a conversation we've had repeatedly since her return, each time with slight variations but the same fundamental conflict.
"The content is..." I struggle to find words that won't sound condescending. "These records are dehumanizing. Clinical. They document women like inventory."
