Holy shit. Craig Mansoor was the money clip guy from that first night where he’d first saw Fallon here in town. He hadn’t paid much attention to her mark because he’d been so caught up in seeing her again and the realization of what she did for a living.
Three events. Three events where Fallon was there, and three events where Mansoor was there. The money clip. The masquerade. The Heritage Center.
That wasn’t coincidence. That was a goddamncampaign.
He could feel the burner phone in his pocket like a stone. Was it possible that Fallon was?—
“Peter. Run a search. Boston, four months ago. Same pattern. Look for a public takedown of a wealthy figure. Private equity, financial crimes.”
Peter's eyebrows went up. “What are you thinking?”
“Just look.”
Peter dug. Isaac sat rigid in his chair while Ryder watched him from across the room. The silence in the office was totalexcept for the distant rattle of the air conditioning and the sound of Peter's keyboard.
“There sure as shit was.” Peter leaned toward his camera. “Malcolm Prescott. Sixty-one. Private equity, ran a firm called Ridgeline Advisors. Four months ago, six Boston media outlets simultaneously published detailed financial records showing that Prescott had systematically gutted pension funds through a series of shell companies. Seven companies, hundreds of employees, millions in stolen retirement savings. The exposure followed the same pattern—documents leaked, press tipped, personal property stolen.”
“We’ve really got to find out who this organization is so I can buy them all a beer,” Ryder said.
Peter kept going. “Mansoor is already claiming none of the accusations can be proven in court because the records were obtained illegally. But it doesn't matter. The damage is social, not legal. Whoever is doing this isn't playing by legal rules. They're not trying to put anyone in prison. They're letting the public destroy them.”
Isaac heard all of this like he was in a different room. Hell, a different planet.
It wasn’t an organization taking these people down. It wasFallon.
The money clip at the Lockwood estate hadn't been a random lift. It was one move in a campaign to dismantle Craig Mansoor. She’d stolen something at the masquerade, too. That was why she'd been near the building when he caught up with her. That was why she'd run through the hedge maze. That was why she'd dislocated her own shoulder to get through that gate rather than let Isaac stop her.
She'd been carrying something she couldn't afford to lose.
The camera avoidance at every event. The different look every time—hair, makeup, her face altered so no one wouldconnect her from one night to the next. The way she tracked Zodiac's schedule and built her calendar around their absence.
I have my reasons. Good ones.
The people I choose have earned it. Every single one of them.
Carefully.
Jesus. She wasn't a pickpocket. She'd never been just a pickpocket. He built an entire understanding of her around the smallest, most insignificant fraction of what she actually did.
He'd offered to save her from a life of petty crime, and she'd been running operations more sophisticated than half the things Zodiac had handled.
He had completely, catastrophically underestimated her.
Isaac picked up the burner phone. His texts stared back at him. The coffee maker photo. The follow-ups. The silence.
He called her. The line rang four times and disconnected.
He called again. Same result.
The silence he'd been brushing off all day rearranged itself. Eight hours without a word. Mansoor's downfall was public. The job was finished.
Austin was done for her.
“Isaac.” Ryder's voice was quiet now. Careful. “What is going on, bro?”
Isaac set the phone down on the desk. His hand stayed next to it. “I—I can’t. Not yet.”
Ryder held his gaze for a long beat. Then he nodded once, sat back down, and picked up his weapon. He didn't ask again.
