Page 35 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

“She’s got more than that.” I push the glass back toward him. “But yeah. She’ll hold the line.”

“She doesn’t seem the type to hold anything quietly.”

“She’s not. That’s half the reason I’m still alive.”

Hank leans forward, his gaze sharper now. “You said you weren’t staying long. You planning to run her through and then disappear again?”

I shake my head. “I’m not running. Not this time.”

He grunts and stands, stretches his back like the conversation’s over. It is. Some things don’t need to be said out loud.

I head upstairs. Abby’s at the desk in the room, hair up in a messy twist, Nick’s journal open in front of her and her fingers flying over her laptop. She’s barefoot, legs curled under her on the chair like she doesn’t know we’re about to start a war.

Pulling off my jacket and setting it on the back of the door, I ask, “Any luck?”

“Depends on your definition,” she mutters. “If you mean did I manage to decrypt the channel Carlton used back when Nick was alive—then yes.”

I cross the room, glance at the screen. It’s a secure node interface. Obsolete tech, but that’s probably the point.

She keeps typing. “It’s dirty-code encrypted. But the signature trace matches a contact Nick flagged three months before the op. It’s how he passed notes back to me without routing through Liberty Quill’s email servers.”

“You’re sure it’s the right node?”

“Positive.” She sits back, spins slowly in the chair. “I masked our IP with a bouncing signal chain. And I used your old burner ID from the Zurich wire transfer to authenticate the sender tag.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You used my offshore credentials?”

She grins. “I’m not going to say I broke the law, but I definitely bent it like a gymnast on Red Bull.”

I shake my head. “Remind me not to piss you off.”

She stands, walks toward the bed, and leans against the frame. “What do we tell him?”

I move closer, crowding her a little. She doesn’t move back. Abby doesn’t give ground easily. It’s one trait we share in common.

“We tell him we have the journal,” I say. “We give him a taste. Enough to verify. Then we set the terms. In public. Secure location. No tricks. He won’t resist. He can’t. He’s too paranoid to leave it alone.”

“And when he shows up?”

“I finish what Nick started.”

Abby watches me for a beat, her mouth tilting like she wants to argue—but doesn’t. Instead, she picks up the notebook, thumbs through the pages, and selects one. She tears it out cleanly, folds it twice, and slides it into an envelope.

“I picked a page that doesn’t mention names, but does reference the Syria op,” she says. “It’ll be enough.”

I take it from her, feel the edge of the paper, the ink pressed hard into the fibers from her brother’s hand. She’s trusting me with this. With everything. I tuck the envelope into my jacket and nod once.

Abby turns back to the laptop, keys in the message:

TO: CORMORANT

You missed the first shot. I won’t miss mine. I have the notebook. One page is attached. If you want the rest, you meet me in Denver. 24 hours. The signal will tell you where. No tail. No weapons. You don’t get another chance.

A. Westwood

She attaches the scan and hits send. It’s done. The silence after the message goes out isn’t comforting. It’s heavy. Coiled.

The quiet before the hammer drops. Abby steps away from the laptop and comes to stand beside me. “What now?” she asks.

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