David
I sit in the dimly lit corner of a private lounge, nursing a glass of scotch while waiting for my contact. The man never changes—always running late but worth the trouble. When he finally slides into the seat across from me, he has that sharp-eyed, eager look of a journalist who smells blood in the water.
“David Thompson,” he greets, smirking. “It’s been a while. You only call when something big is about to explode.”
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. “And you only answer when there’s something juicy enough to make your career.”
He chuckles. “Flattery will get you everywhere. What do you have for me?”
I slide a flash drive across the table. “Everything you need to take Nancy Grant down. Internal lab emails, timestamps showing she accessed Laura’s research without authorizatio
