I didn’t react.
He watched me for a second, then added, almost casually, “Lundy detail, maybe. Something low stress. Seems like your speed.”
Right then, a car passed behind him on the road. Headlights swept across us in a clean arc of white light. For a fraction of a second, everything sharpened.
His face.
The rain.
And his wrist.
I saw it immediately.
Gold casing. Slim profile. Dark dial. Clean lines. No scratches.
Patek Philippe.
I didn’t need a second look. You don’t mistake something like that.
Eighty thousand minimum.
I shifted my eyes back to his face. He was still talking, still trying to press the threat.
“Just sign the paper and we can all move on.”
“How long have you had that watch?” I asked.
He stopped.
Blink.
“What?”
“The watch,” I said. “How long?”
His eyes flicked down for a split second, then back up.
“It was a gift,” he said quickly.
“From who?”
“That’s not your concern.”
No, it was, because I already knew the math didn’t work.
Major in logistics. Base salary. Standard allowances. Even with bonuses, even with deployments, you don’t land anywhere near that price range without something extra. Something off the books.
I leaned back slightly in my seat.
“You should be careful with what you wear,” I said.
His expression shifted again, subtle this time. Not anger. Recognition.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
I gave a small, flat smile.
“It means that watch doesn’t match your paycheck,” I said.
Silence.
Rain kept hitting the car. Harder now.
His grip on the door tightened just a little.
“You’re reaching,” he said.
“Am I?”
He didn’t answer.
I glanced at the paper still in his hand.
“Keep it,” I said. “I’m not signing anything.”
His jaw flexed.
“You’re making a mistake.”
I met his eyes again.
“No,” I said. “You already did.”
Another car passed. More light, then darkness again.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then something in his posture changed. Just a fraction.
He stepped back. Not fast. Not obvious. But enough.
“Think about it,” he said.
Voice tighter now.
“This doesn’t end well for you.”
I reached for the door.
“It already didn’t,” I said, and I pushed it shut.
The sound cut him off mid-breath.
I locked the door without looking at him. Through the rain-streaked glass, I watched him stand there for a second longer. Then he turned and walked back toward the building faster than he came out.
I leaned back again, eyes forward.
The rain hadn’t let up.
Neither had anything else.
I reached into my pocket and pulled the device back out.
The red code was still there, waiting.
I unlocked the screen, and this time I didn’t hesitate.
The shine of that watch stayed in my head longer than it should have, then flattened into the cold blue glow of my monitors by morning.
No sunlight in the SCIF. No windows. Just filtered air, layered security, and three screens humming in front of me like they always did.
I dropped my bag on the chair, still in the same uniform. Didn’t bother changing. Didn’t bother sleeping.
Sleep could wait.
Data couldn’t.
I logged in, ran authentication, and watched the system open up piece by piece. Clearance gates. Encryption layers. Audit logs.
Everything looked normal.
That’s usually the first sign something isn’t.
I pulled up Julian’s unit profile first. Logistics. Mid-level command authority. Access to procurement chains, vendor approval, shipment routing.
Nothing unusual on paper.
That’s how it works.
You don’t hide illegal activity in places that look suspicious. You hide it inside things that look routine.
I started with contract flow. Last six months. Cross-referenced vendor IDs against approved lists, pulled transaction timestamps, then let the system run pattern analysis while I manually scanned the outliers.
Numbers don’t lie.
People do.
At first, it was small. Round numbers that didn’t quite match the line items they were attached to. Timing offsets that were just a little too clean. Transfers hitting accounts within seconds of approval, like someone already knew they were coming.
I flagged three.
Then seven.
Then fifteen.
My fingers moved faster across the keyboard.
