His voice was a low rumble, steady and entirely devoid of panic.

He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a rugged, military-grade tablet.

“We route the connection through my secure server first,” he explained, plugging a black cable from the tablet into my phone.

I watched the screen of his tablet flicker to life, lines of green code scrolling rapidly down the black display.

“He thinks he has the upper hand because of the corrupted key,” I said, my voice barely audible over the sound of the rain.

“But he just gave us his direct digital signature,” Adrian murmured.

He tapped the screen twice, isolating the incoming data packet from the video stream.

“Can you trace the routing path?” I asked.

“I need your financial analyst eyes for this, Emily. You know his server architecture better than anyone.”

I took the heavy tablet from his hands, my fingers cold and stiff.

The screen showed the video file’s transfer protocol, a string of complex network addresses.

“Marcus always uses a double-proxy server based out of Zurich when he moves money,” I said, pointing to a recurring string of numbers.