Victoria is already at Dar's shoulder, reading the data stream with the focused intensity of a woman who has spent years building the intelligence picture that this data completes.
"Cross-reference against what I brought from the European operations," Victoria says. Her voice is controlled, but her hand on the back of Dar's chair is white-knuckled. "Webb's financial network. The command hierarchy. Everything I built over the last several months."
Dar's fingers fly. Data streams merge on the central display, Victoria's intelligence layering over the raw Committee feeds like transparencies on a light table.
The picture assembles with a clarity that makes the air in the operations center go thin.
Webb's location. His remaining assets. His chain of command. Every node in the Committee's operational network, mapped and labeled and suddenly, devastatingly vulnerable.
"That's him." Victoria points at a cluster of communications originating from a single secured location. "That's Webb."
The room goes quiet. The kind of quiet that happens when people who have been fighting a war for years realize they're looking at the thing that ends it.
Sarah arrives with Stryker and Mercer behind her. Dylan appears from the corridor, still carrying the rifle he's had on his person since the attack began, his eyes sweeping the room before settling on the central display. Micah, Sarah’s partner and lover, follows, silent as always, positioning himself where he can see every screen and every face simultaneously.
"Is that what I think it is?" Stryker asks.
"The Committee's entire operational network, laid bare like a circuit board with the casing ripped off," I say. "Webb's location, his comms, his money, his people. All of it."
"All of it," Dar confirms.
Her voice is steady, but her fingers pause on the keys for a fraction of a second before resuming, and I know what that pause means. She's feeling the weight of what we found. The war she fought alone for two years, the war this team has fought for longer, suddenly has a finish line they can see.
Dylan moves closer to the central display. Studies the data with the focused attention of a man who lost his wife and daughter to the organization mapped on that screen. His jaw works once. His grip on the rifle adjusts. Nothing else changes on his face, but the intensity of his attention is a gravity well that bends the room around it.
I turn to the framing evidence next. It's still out there, the fabricated data designed to make me look like the source of the breach, circulating through channels that could do real damage if left unchecked.
"Sarah." I pull up the distribution map. "The framing data. Can you trace the propagation?"
Sarah takes one look at the map and sits down at the nearest terminal.
"Fifteen minutes," she says, already typing. "The distribution pattern is sloppy. They rushed deployment when the weapon failed."
Dar has already pivoted. "I can prove the signatures are fabricated. Forensically. The architect was good, but replicating someone's coding style is like forging handwriting. Close only works if nobody compares the original."
She pulls up the fabricated code beside my actual encryption protocols, and the differences bloom on the screen like a digital fingerprint analysis.
"Six lines. I told you. Anyone who's actually read your code would know."
"You said that weeks ago."
"I was right weeks ago. I'm still right." She turns her chair to face me fully, and the conviction in her eyes isn't clinical. It's fierce. Protective in a way that lands in my chest like a fist.
"Your conditional logic nests left. The fabrication nests right. Your variable naming convention follows a pattern derived from, if I'm not mistaken, an obscure 1990s programming textbook that you apparently internalized at a formative age. The forgery uses modern convention. It's competent mimicry from someone who studied your output." She pauses. "It falls apart under comparison with your process."
She's defending me with the one weapon she trusts absolutely, and the weapon is her mind, and it is aimed squarely at anyone who would question my integrity.
My throat is tight. I want to kiss her. In front of the entire team, in front of Kane, in front of Victoria Cross and her razor-sharp assessment of everything in her field of vision. I want to cross the two feet between our chairs and put my hands in her ridiculous rainbow hair and kiss her until neither of us can remember what protocol means.
I don't. I adjust my glasses instead, because some instincts are older than want.
Sarah traces the distribution channels in fourteen minutes and starts building containment protocols. The framing operation collapses under the weight of proof that no intelligence service could ignore.
The relief is physical. My shoulders drop two inches. My jaw unclenches for the first time in what feels like days. The knot between my shoulder blades, the one I've been carrying since the first screen went dark, loosens enough that I can take a full breath without my ribcage protesting.
Then Dar stands up.
She doesn't look at me. She looks at Kane.
