The headache was instantaneous. She had no voicemails, but Tilly Erickson knew that nineteen missed calls from Rick at 1 a.m. couldn’t be anything other than trouble. Scrabbling through her nightstand, she found some loose pills and tossed them back, hoping they were Advils and not the leftover ibuprofens from her root canal. She didn’t check.
Her temple continued to thump as she made her way downstairs, heading to her work desk. She had left DC so she could avoid nights like this, but Atlanta was rarely the dream destination people wanted it to be, even for FBI agents.
Easing into her office chair, she turned on her computer and logged into the FBI remote server, opening other tabs to catch up on news while she waited for access to her inbox. Three-step authentication was great for secu
