Burke set his pastry down. “So.”
I grimaced at the truth that had been sitting in my gut for days. “So someone else is running them.”
“Someone with inside information?”
“Yes.”
Burke held my gaze. His eyes were sharper than his posture suggested. “You’ve known this for three days and you’re just now telling us.”
“I wanted to be sure.”
“Sure like ‘I checked twice’ or sure like ‘I ran the whole thing in my head until three in the morning every night.’”
“The second one.”
“Great.” Burke picked up his pastry. “That’s healthy.”
Caleb set a fresh plate in the center of the table. More pastries. Burke reached immediately, which was how Mitch knew Burke wasn’t actually that worried. Mitch had a chart for that.
I’d seen the chart. It lived in the same mental filing cabinet where he kept track of how many times I’d almost smiled, and it was approximately as scientifically rigorous.
Mitch leaned forward. Elbows on the table. He’d been quiet through most of this, which was its own kind of signal—Mitch quiet was either asleep or about to say something that would land like a direct hit.
“It’s not a leak,” he said.
The word sat there. Plain. Unadorned. He said it the way he said most things that mattered—without drama, like naming the thing correctly was basic courtesy.
“It’s a traitor. Someone with inside access who actively worked to keep Hughs and Peterson operational. Someone who used that access to shield them from countermeasures. Someone running cleanup now because the trials mean testimony and testimony means exposure.” He looked at me. “Not a leak. A choice. Someone chose this.”
Rawley’s mug hit the table. “There’s a difference.”
“Yeah,” Mitch said. “One of them is an accident.”
I held Mitch’s gaze. He looked back steady and warm and not remotely smug about being right, which was almost more impressive than being right. His arm pressed against mine, heat through fabric, and the contact was deliberate and grounding and exactly what I needed at exactly the wrong moment.
“Mitch is correct,” I said.
Rawley’s jaw worked. “Who?”
“I have a short list,” I replied. “I need forty-eight hours to confirm before I put a name to it.” I looked at the table. “I’m not burning a career operative on a short list.”
“That’s fair,” Burke said. “And also slightly terrifying.”
Jackson shifted in his seat. He looked exhausted, the kind of exhausted that lived in the bones. “Whoever it is knew about the greenhouse blind spot. That’s not in any briefing.”
Cruz said nothing. From Cruz, nothing meant he already had his own list and it was shorter than mine.
Macon’s hand settled on the table. “What’s the play?”
“No pattern changes,” I said. “No signals that we’ve identified the problem. Let the traitor believe the raid accomplished something. I pull on the threads only someone inside my network could have touched.”
“And then?” Burke asked.
“Then I handle it.”
“Define handle it.”
I looked at him.
