Four percent. Twelve percent.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I looked out the window again.

A black SUV slowly cruised past the hospital gates, its high beams blindingly bright in the rain.

It slowed down near the emergency entrance.

“Nora,” I whispered, leaning lower in the seat.

“I see it,” she said, her voice tight.

The progress bar hit forty percent.

“Come on,” Nora muttered to the screen. “Just a little faster.”

The laptop beeped, a sharp, clear sound that felt incredibly loud in the small car.

The security prompt vanished, replaced by a root directory.

The main folder was labeled *TFF_DOMESTIC_RECIPIENTS*.

Nora clicked it open, revealing dozens of subfolders named after shell companies in Panama and the Cayman Islands.

My breath caught in my throat as I saw the transaction ledgers.

“These aren’t charitable donations,” I whispered.

“No,” Nora said, her finger hovering over the mouse. “Look at the routing numbers. They are looping back into domestic real estate holdings.”

The black SUV in the parking lot stopped.

Its headlights cut directly through the rear window of our car, illuminating the interior in a stark, white glare.