Brandon frozen, his hand still outstretched.

We both looked at the glowing screen of the desk phone.

The caller ID read: *M. PRESCOTT*.

The phone rang a second time.

The high-pitched electronic chime cut through the low rumble of the thunder outside.

Brandon’s eyes darted from the screen to my face, his hand still hovering in the air with the silver key.

“Answer it,” I said.

He didn’t move.

“She’s calling to see if you’ve secured the drive,” I said, my voice flat.

“If I don’t answer, she’ll know something is wrong,” Brandon muttered.

“Something is wrong, Brandon.”

I reached into my uniform pocket and pulled out the small black device.

The green light on the side was not just solid; it was blinking in a rapid, rhythmic pattern.

Brandon looked at the device, his brow furrowing.

“What is that?” he asked.

“It is a tactical satellite transmitter,” I said.

“That’s not a hard drive.”

“No,” I said. “It is an encrypted uplink.”

The office was cold, the air conditioning fighting against the humid North Carolina storm outside.