Webb talked for six hours.
I sat across from him in the cellar, a laptop open on my knees, recording every word. Dante came and went—checking on Leo, making calls, managing the empire that still needed running even while we dismantled its enemies. But I stayed. I couldn't leave. Every name Webb gave up felt like a stone added to the cairn I was building for my sister's memory.
There were more operatives than I'd expected. Not seven or eight—Webb had lied about that, or been mistaken, or been testing us. The full list was twenty-three names, scattered across eleven countries and six intelligence agencies. Some were field agents. Some were analysts. One was a deputy director at Interpol who'd been feeding Vane information for over a decade.
"The deputy director," I said, my voice hoarse f
