“A friend,” the man said. “Tell your analyst friend to unplug her router before she loses everything.”

The line went dead.

I dropped the phone onto the desk.

The plastic clattered against a pile of paper clips, scattering them across the dark wood.

“Unplug it,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Sarah, unplug everything.”

Sarah didn’t hesitate.

She lunged under the desk, her shoulder hitting the edge of the keyboard tray with a dull thud.

A second later, the sharp click of a power strip turning off cut through the quiet room.

The remaining indicator lights on her backup drive died, plunging the corner of the office into shadow.

Only the grey light of a wet Chicago afternoon filtered through the blinds, casting long, thin lines across her pale face.

“Did they get in?” I asked, kneeling beside her.

“They cut the connection from their end,” she breathed, her forehead resting against the side of the desk. “But they tracing-routed us first.”

“The phone call,” I said. “He knew we were looking at the New York server.”