"Delete those logs before you pull the cable, or Arthur’s sweepers will track us down to this exact room in twenty minutes," I snapped, keeping my eyes fixed on the flickering laptop screen.
Vivienne didn't answer with words. Her jaw tightened as her cold fingers flew across the keyboard, slamming down on the enter key with enough force to rattle the cheap wooden table. The tiny Zagreb safehouse was freezing, the bitter European draft leaking through cracks in the glass, but neither of us moved away from the glow of the monitor.
"The terminal is clear," she said, her voice dry and rough from hours of silence. "The trace ended at an old proxy server in Split, but the encryption signature didn't originate in France. It jumped."
I leaned over her shoulder, my hand resting on the back of he
