“Yes, sir,” Harris said, already reaching for his radio as he backed out of the room.

The study door closed again, leaving us in the dim light of the computer monitor.

I looked at the black USB drive still lying on the desk.

Before either of us could move to plug it in, Damon’s phone in his jacket pocket began to vibrate.

The screen lit up against the dark fabric.

The caller ID showed an unknown, restricted number.

Damon reached for the phone.

His knuckles turned white as his fingers closed around the glass and metal casing.

“Put it on speaker,” I whispered.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

He slid his thumb across the screen and tapped the icon.

The silence of the study was broken by the dry, static hiss of a secure line.

“Damon,” a voice said.

It was a man’s voice, flat and entirely devoid of emotion, filtered through some kind of digital modulator.

“Who is this?” Damon asked.

His voice was a low growl, vibrating with a violence he rarely let me see.