His mouth quirks into an almost-smile. "Yeah. I do."
He showers while I order food from the kitchen, and by the time he emerges in clean clothes with wet hair, Harrior's delivered burgers and fries that smell incredible despite my lack of appetite. We eat in relative silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts, and when the food's gone, exhaustion hits me like a truck.
"Sleep," Ice Pick orders, pulling me down onto the bed. "Files will be here in the morning. Tonight, you rest."
"What about you?"
"I'll sleep when I know you're out." He wraps himself around me, solid and warm and safe. "Close your eyes, sweetheart."
I do, expecting sleep to be impossible with my mind racing and my nerves shot. But his steady breathing and the security of his arms work some kind of magic, and I drift off within minutes.
When I wake, sunlight's streaming through the blinds and Ice Pick's gone. Panic spikes for a moment before I see the note on his pillow.
Downstairs with Vulture and Falcon. Files arrived. Come down when you're ready.
I dress quickly and head to the common room where Condor's set up a command center of sorts. Multiple laptops,printers, papers are spread across several tables. Ice Pick's there with Falcon and Sterling, all of them studying documents with intense focus.
"Morning," I say, grabbing coffee from the pot someone thoughtfully made. "What've we got?"
"Financial records going back five years," Condor says without looking up from his screen. "Bank statements, wire transfers, corporate filings. Agent Forrister sent everything she could legally share."
"And some things she probably couldn't," I mutter, spotting classified headers on some documents.
"What she doesn't know won't hurt her." Falcon's smile is sharp. "We've got twenty-four hours to find something useful before the FBI moves forward with their internal investigation. After that, everything shuts down while they root out the leak."
"Then let's make those twenty-four hours count."
I settle in next to Condor, and we work through the files systematically. Ice Pick stays close, ostensibly reviewing weapon inventory but really just keeping an eye on me. It should be annoying. Instead, it's comforting.
Hours pass in a blur of numbers and names, cross-referencing shell companies with known Castellano associates, tracking money as it flows through increasingly complex corporate structures. My eyes are starting to blur when something catches my attention.
"Wait. Go back." I point at Condor's screen. "That transfer there. Twenty million dollars moved from Apex International to a company called Southshore Development on the same day the FBI raided Castellano's properties."
Condor pulls up the details. "Southshore Development. Incorporated in Delaware, registered agent lists a PO box." He digs deeper. "Owns properties in three states, including a private airfield in Illinois."
"That's his escape route." I'm already pulling up maps, marking locations. "If he moved that money the same day as the raid, he was preparing to run. The airfield's his exit."
Ice Pick's on his phone immediately, calling Agent Forrister. "We've got something. Airfield in Illinois, owned by a shell company Castellano funded right before he disappeared." He listens, then nods. "Yeah, we can send you everything we've got."
Falcon's already coordinating with Sterling to compile the evidence into a format the FBI can use. Within twenty minutes, everything's packaged and sent, and Agent Forrister's coordinating with Illinois field offices to surveil the airfield.
"Good work," Vulture says, looking at me with something like approval. "That's the kind of intel that breaks cases."
"It's what I do." But the satisfaction's short-lived because finding the airfield doesn't mean finding Castellano. He could already be gone, could already be in Louisiana or anywhere else with an extradition-proof government.
My phone rings. Unknown number.
Ice Pick's immediately on alert. "Don't answer it."
But something makes me hesitate, my finger hovering over the accept button. Unknown numbers have been dangerous, have led to threats and violence. But they've also been sources, informants who only trust burner phones and encrypted communication.
"I have to." I answer before he can stop me. "Hello?"
"Ms. Langley." The voice is male, cultured, dripping with the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no. "I've been hoping we'd have a chance to speak."
My blood runs cold. "Castellano."
Ice Pick's weapon is in his hand instantly, and Falcon's gesturing frantically for Condor to trace the call. I put it on speaker, my hand shaking so hard I nearly drop the phone.
