We tore down the narrow dirt track without our lights on, relying on the pale moonlight filtering through the canopy.

Only when we hit the paved state route did Aaron switch the headlights on.

My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the laptop.

“Where are we going?” I asked, looking back at the empty road behind us.

“Someplace with Wi-Fi and no private patrols,” Aaron said, his jaw tight.

He drove us to an all-night diner off Interstate 95.

The smell of burnt coffee and grease greeted us as we took a booth in the far corner.

I opened the laptop again, plugging in my federal decryption drive.

The progress bar on my screen ticked upward slowly.

“If Whitaker’s security was patrolling the pump house, they know we are looking,” I said.

“They know I have the drive,” Aaron replied, staring into his black coffee.

“But they don’t know how much we’ve read.”

The laptop beeped, a green dialog box flashing on the screen: *Decryption Complete.*

A massive directory of PDF files and spreadsheets populated the window.