That’s worse.
“Recruiting for what?”
“We don’t know yet. That’s the problem.”
I stare out across the dark skyline.
“We’ve got seven confirmed disappearances,” he continues. “All clean records. People who wouldn’t trip alarms. Former medics. Ex-military logistics. Drone techs. Comms specialists.”
“Support spine,” I murmur.
“Exactly.”
He exhales.
“And once they’re gone, they’re gone. Phones left behind. Bank accounts frozen. No digital noise. Like they walked out of the world.”
A cold weight settles in my chest.
“Who’s running it?”
“We don’t know.”
Of course we don’t.
“But the structure looks familiar,” he continues. “Compartmentalized. Cellular. Trust-based entry.”
I already know what he’s going to say next.
“Same bones as Sentinel’s early recruitment architecture.”
I breathe out slowly.
“So he taught someone how to build a ghost army.”
“Yes.”
I glance back into the apartment where my go-bag waits by the door, already packed like it never stopped expecting this call.
“Where?”
“Montana. Three hours outside Missoula. A town so small it barely exists on maps.”
“Why me?”
Another pause.
“Because the last time we saw a structure like this,” he says quietly, “you were the one who burned it down.”
I almost smile.
“Who’s the analyst?”
Silence.
Then—
“Wren McKay.”
