Meridian.
Eighteen months she’d been chasing financial trails that dead-ended at shell companies. She’d only found fragments that couldn’t be connected. Threads that dissolved into offshore accounts and corporate paperwork designed to obscure.
She’d known there was a pipeline somewhere, a channel that moved money from whoever was funding the conspiracy to the mercenaries who carried out the attacks. She’d never been able to find it.
Was Meridian the name she’d been looking for? The bridge between the money and the violence?
“You know what we want you to know,” said the calm voice.
“I know this goes above Prescott. Way above.” Carl’s voice was climbing higher now, fear bleeding through the bravado. “You think I didn’t keep records? Insurance. Anything happens to me and it goes public.”
Prescott. That was confirmation that the conspiracy hadn’t ended with his arrest. There was something bigger. Someone funding everything. And that person was still out there.
“Your files are already gone, Carl. We’ve been in your apartment twice this month.”
They were thorough. Careful. They cleaned up after themselves. That’s why she’d never been able to find anything. Every lead had gone cold. Every threat dissolved into nothing.
“I’ll talk. The FBI. The Shifter Protection Agency. Someone will listen.”
Carl’s last desperate gambit. Siren knew how this ended. She’d read the news reports. He’d been found in a dumpster behind Fate Mountain Brewery yesterday morning.
“The Major doesn’t tolerate loose ends,” the calm voice said. “And no one is listening to a dead bartender who skimmed from the register.”
The Major. A military title. Siren filed that information away. It was another thread to pull.
The recording continued. There was a scuffle, a grunt that was cut short, and then silence. Something heavy was dragged across the concrete and the metallic creak of the dumpster lid opening. A thud and the lid falling closed. The footsteps walked away, unhurried and calm. And then crickets, the distant hum of traffic, and Reed Bright singing folk songs inside.
The recording ended.
Siren stared at Reed. He was watching her, his face uncertain. He had no idea what he’d given her. This recording could be the key to a conspiracy that had been eating at her for eighteen months.
“Where’s the original?” she asked.
“Still on the recorder. I have another copy on my computer at home.”
“And you’re sure no one else heard this, or knew about it?”
“I told the sound guy, Danny, I was recording. But I don’t think anyone else knows.”
If the killer didn’t know the evidence existed, then they had time.
“You did the right thing,” she said. “Coming here was the right move.”
Something in his face shifted. The validation he’d needed after not knowing what to do.
“But you need to understand something.” She held his gaze, making sure he was listening. “The man on this recording is dangerous, and he works for dangerous people. They’ve killed to protect their secrets, and they will kill again.”
She let that land. “If they find out you have this…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. She watched the fear solidify in his face. He’d known that this was dangerous information. That’s why he’d brought it here instead of the police.
And then it sunk in for her. Her mate was in danger. The thought cut through her professional detachment like a blade. Her wolf surged inside her, angry and relentless. She shoved it down. This wasn’t the time to be concerned about the mate bond. This witness had critical evidence. She needed to protect him like she would protect anyone in this situation.
“Stay here,” she said, standing. “I need to brief my boss.”
He nodded, and she walked out of the conference room. Dom’s office door was closed, and she knocked once before entering. He looked up from his desk, his eyes focusing on her.
“We have a situation,” she said.
