He gripped the phone tighter, his knuckles turning red.

“Do it today, Whitaker. Before they lock down the digital records.”

He hung up without waiting for a reply.

I watched the reflection in the polished brass of the elevator doors.

Two men in dark suits were standing near the drinking fountain, twenty feet behind Callum.

One of them had a small, flesh-colored earpiece in his right ear.

He was holding a leather folder close to his chest, his eyes fixed on Callum’s back.

The other man was looking at a tablet, his thumb scrolling quickly.

They did not look like reporters.

They had the quiet, watchful air of federal agents.

The elevator dinged, and the heavy brass doors slid open.

I stepped inside the wood-paneled car.

As the doors began to slide shut, I saw Callum staring at his phone again.

The screen lit up, reflecting a pale blue light across his face.

It was a text message from an unknown number.

The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off the view of the two federal agents.

The wood-paneled car descended silently, the indicator lights ticking down the floors.