At the safehouse, Pat sat at the long table with her headset looped around her neck, fingers drumming restless patterns against the wood. The screens glowed with static feeds of the harbor perimeter—grainy black-and-white shots that made every shadow look like a man with a gun.
Julian hunched over the keyboard, eyes locked to the streams of code rolling down the monitor. He looked like he hadn’t blinked in an hour.
“You’re sure about this line?” Pat asked, trying to keep her voice neutral. “Dock twelve? That’s where they’re moving it?”
Julian didn’t glance up. “That’s what you told them. My job is to make sure we see it coming before they do.”
She felt the bite under his words. Julian hadn’t said more than ten to her since she’d shown back up, and every one had been laced with distrust
