It was a signature block.
Authorization for burial-on-paper operations. One approval line already filled. One still blank.
The filled name made my stomach drop.
Not some faceless official. Not a contractor. Not a politician.
Someone from inside our old chain.
Someone we had trusted.
I looked up at Nora, and she met my eyes like she’d known that would be the real wound all along.
Outside, wind rattled the compound windows.
Inside, Reyes pinned the Spokane map to the wall.
Whatever Red Harbor was, it wasn’t dead.
And by morning, we were going after the archive before the people who buried us got there first.
Leave a Comment