I throw the first trail onto the holo display.
A series of shell company names—innocuous, bland, corporate. Logistics outfits. Medical supply contractors. One is literally called something likeGur Maritime Solutionswhich is the kind of name you pick when you want people to fall asleep while reading it.
The Nine’s shell web.
Except the outgoing endpoints aren’t black-market caches.
They’re Alliance armory shipments.
My pulse spikes.
I zoom in, highlight the shipment IDs.
“These are serial-linked,” I say, voice tightening. “Not just ‘similar’ modules. The exact batch numbers match the ones Lonari intercepted. And—” I flick to another window, overlaying safehouse assault residue logs, recovered bolt signatures, micro-burn patterns from the walls.
Clint inhales sharply.
“No,” he whispers.
“Yes,” I say.
The screen shows it plainly: the weapons used in the safehouse assault—the Alliance-grade energy diffusers, the precise bolt profile—are tied to shipments routed through Nine shells.
Nine didn’t just buy weapons.
They’re getting issued inventory.
My hands go cold.
Lonari’s voice is quiet, like a blade being drawn slow. “They’re using High Command stock.”
“Or someone’s issuing it to them,” Clint mutters, face pale.
I scroll deeper.
The procurement approvals aren’t signed by a person’s name. They’re routed through an office code.
And there it is—again and again and again.
A recurring identifier.
A High Command office routing approvals through something called a “civilian oversight committee.”
I stare at it like it might blink.
“Civilian oversight committee,” I repeat, incredulous.
Clint’s face changes.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
He leans in so fast his chair squeaks. “Oh no.”
“What?” I snap.
Clint swallows hard. “That structure… that wording… Jordan, that’s a loophole.”
