Men building stories.
Men deleting what they could.
Men learning too late that panic makes sloppy hands.
“I gave them the operation name,” Claire said.
Reyes laughed once, short and sharp.
“I figured. They’re spinning like fans in here.”
“They discussed erasing video.”
“Doesn’t matter. We have mirrored streams already.”
Claire leaned back against the headrest.
Her body was starting to register what her mind had delayed.
The ache in her wrists.
The slice in her heel.
The soreness between her shoulders from the shove into the cruiser.
The exhaustion.
She could rest later.
“Do we still wait for morning?”
“No,” Reyes said. “Morning waits for us.”
At 5:58 a.m., the first black SUV rolled into Main Street.
By 6:00, there were seven.
They came silent and fast.
Federal tactical officers stepped out in dark jackets and plain vests, not theatrical, not reckless, just disciplined. Marshals sealed the rear exit. Evidence techs moved in behind them. Digital teams carried hard cases and portable drives. Legal teams had binders under their arms.
