She leans forward slightly.
“You saw it too.”
“Yeah.”
“The way he scanned the room.”
“The way he approached us.”
“The way he already knew our cover.”
I nod.
“He wasn’t fishing,” I say.
“He was confirming.”
Wren’s fingers tighten around her coffee mug.
“They know we’re here.”
“Maybe.”
“No,” she says quietly.
Her analyst brain is already racing ahead.
“That wasn’t curiosity.”
“What was it?”
“Calibration.”
I lean back in the booth.
Outside the window, the man climbs into a dusty pickup truck.
The engine starts.
He drives away slowly.
“He wanted to see you,” Wren says.
“Why?”
“Because you’re Boone Grant.”
I look back at her.
“And if they know that?”
Her expression hardens.
“Then we’re not investigating a recruitment network.”
“What are we investigating?”
She meets my eyes.
