I didn't sleep.
The USB sat on my nightstand, a small black rectangle that contained everything Mira had died to protect. I'd plugged it into a secure laptop Dante had provided—no internet connection, no network, just a screen and a processor and the ghost of my sister's final mission. Transaction logs. Encrypted communications. Names. Dates. A trail of blood and money that stretched across eight years and a dozen countries.
Webb was the center of it. Webb and a man identified only as "The Architect," whose scarred hand appeared in a single photograph attached to the files. The same scar I'd seen on Rourke's hand in the alley. The same scar on the bank guard's hand before I'd put him on the floor.
They were branded. All of them. A network of traitors marked by the same pale line across
