Page 134 of Hunt Me

“Theft of classified materials. Conspiracy to commit espionage. Extortion of government officials.” Each charge lands like a hammer strike. “These are the crimes you’ve committed in the last seventy-two hours alone. We have evidence. We have witnesses. We have your digital signatures all over systems you had no authorization to access.”

Her gaze sweeps across us, lingering on me.

“You’re facing life imprisonment. All of you.” She leans forward, palms flat on the table. “Unless you return everything you stole and submit to debriefing about your methods and contacts.”

The threat hangs heavy in the recycled air.

Nikolai doesn’t react. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift in his seat.

“If we’re criminals,” he says, tone perfectly measured, “why are we here instead of in custody?”

The question lands like a grenade.

Walsh’s fingers drum against the table. Hawkins’s jaw clenches. Kendall’s eyes narrow, the first crack in her professional mask.

Nobody answers.

Because we all know why. Because arresting us means the files go public. Because taking us into custody triggers the dead man’s switch we built into every backup, every hidden cache, every insurance policy we’ve scattered across the dark web.

Kendall recovers quickly. “This meeting is a courtesy?—”

“No.” I stand, the chair scraping against linoleum. “This meeting is damage control.”

Every eye tracks me as I cross to the whiteboard mounted on the far wall. I’m wearing a charcoal suit—tailored, professional, the kind of armor that commands attention without demanding it. My platinum hair catches the fluorescent light as I uncap a dry-erase marker.

I start writing.

Project Nightshade

Beneath it, I branch into sub-categories. Funding sources. Authorization chains. Operational timelines.

“Director Kendall,” I say, not turning around, “did you authorize these operations?”

The marker squeaks against the board as I add another name—Senator Harrison.

“This is classified information—” Kendall starts.

I pivot to face her. “You’re claiming classified status for a program that murdered American citizens?”

The words cut through her objection like a blade.

“That’s not classification.” I hold her gaze, refusing to blink. “That’s criminal conspiracy.”

Dmitri chucks a manila folder across the polished table. It lands directly in front of Kendall with a soft thud that somehow carries weight.

“Wire transfers,” he says, his accent thickening slightly. “Offshore accounts. Shell corporations funneling payments to very specific individuals.”

He leans back, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“General Hawkins received four hundred thousand dollars over eighteen months. Deputy Director Walsh, three hundred and twenty thousand. Both payments were routed through Sentinel Operations’ secondary accounts.”

The temperature in the room drops.

Kendall opens the folder with measured movements, her face betraying nothing as she scans the first page. But I catch it—the microscopic tightening around her eyes, the way her breath stutters for half a second before evening out.

Walsh doesn’t bother hiding his reaction. His hand flattens against the table, knuckles going white. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

Hawkins attempts unconcerned, leaning back in his chair with manufactured casualness. But his other hand curls into a fist beneath the table where he thinks we can’t see it.