Page 12 of Beyond Redemption

“Sir,” he said nodding to Constance. “Apologies, Constance. Denver’s back on the line. They’re asking for you directly.”

Constance and I exchanged a single glance—a silent calculus we’d developed years ago, equal parts trust and triage.

“Patch it through,” I said.

Evans nodded and disappeared.

Constance set her tablet on the desk again. “I’ll stay.”

“Of course you will.”

She didn’t smile, but her eyes were flickering with a combination of relief and apprehension, as if whatever waited on the other end might be unwelcome but would at least force me to move in the direction she’d been nudging.

Beneath that, a quieter truth: Fairchild’s press conference had rattled the wrong cage, and whatever feral beast was behind those bars was just given a reason to draw blood.

Chapter Three

Liis

I stepped out of my office and back into the hallway. The CI break room was two turns away, past the analyst pod where newer recruits clustered. Inside, the machines were already working through the morning rush, their low gurgle undercut by the murmur of half-awake conversations. Someone had left a box of donuts on the counter; the chocolate ones, as usual, were already gone.

“Liis,” a voice said behind me. “You’re here even earlier than usual.”

I turned to see Marisol leaning against the counter, mug in hand. She wore her usual neat blazer and tailored slacks, her dark hair twisted up, eyes already alert. She’d been at HQ for three years and went by Sol, which amused me more than I ever told her.

“So are you, and you’re usually dragging in at ten past.”

“Eight a.m. starts are a personal attack,” she said, working to keep her eyes open.

“You chose counterintelligence,” I said. “Early briefings are in the fine print.”

I poured coffee, black. Sugar and creamer took too long, and if the caffeine was going in, it may as well hurt.

“Word is Vargas wants updates from everyone who’s touched the case in the last week,” Marisol said, keeping her voice just above a whisper.

“Makes sense to me. This one is moving fast.”

“Accurate.” Marisol lifted her mug. “At least Vargas listens. I’ll take that over someone who talks just to hear their own voice. Like…” she trailed.

“Probably a good idea not to finish that sentence.” I didn’t know who she was about to implicate, but odds were good they worked within twenty feet of my office.

We fell into step on the way to the briefing room, coffee in hand. Conference B-314 sat near the center of the floor, behind another secure door. A small screen beside the entrance listed the schedule: 0800–0900, CI Division Intel Briefing; Host: Section Chief E. Vargas.

Inside, the room looked like every high-level conference room I’d ever seen, only with slightly better chairs. Long table, seats on both sides, wall screens at the front displaying the FBI seal and a simple title slide for the case we were about to discuss. A speakerphone unit sat in the center of the table, already linked to a couple of field offices calling in. The far wall held a whiteboard covered in diagrams and names from earlier briefings.

People filtered in steadily: analysts, agents, one legal liaison, a representative from HQ Intel Branch. I recognized most of them. The lead case agent from the New York field office appeared on the main screen via secure video, adjusting his camera and pretending he wasn’t checking his hair.

At 7:59, the room quieted without anyone requesting it. That was Vargas’s effect.

She entered from the side door with a folder in hand, dark suit sharp, hair pulled back in a low bun. Elena Vargas was in her late forties, compact, and carried herself with the unhurried confidence of someone who had long ago decided she didn’t need to raise her voice to be obeyed. Her eyes swept the room once, noting faces, open laptops, who was still fiddling with theirphone. Then she set the folder on the table, took her seat at the head, and nodded.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s start.”

The lead analyst on the case walked us through the overnight summary: data pulls, new signals traffic, a financial transfer flagged from Tokyo to a shell entity in northern Delaware. Graphics appeared on the screen as he spoke, lines connecting names and companies. It was all familiar, but familiar in the way a shifting puzzle was—nothing stayed static for long.

When she finished, Vargas leaned back slightly, gaze moving around the table.

“Questions first,” she said. “Then I want assessments. No one’s here to be decorative.”