Early morning. The factory was empty. Pale light came through the dust-streaked windows of the overhead office.
Vance sat at the desk, fingers over the laptop keyboard. Corbin stood behind him.
"What do you want sent?" Vance said.
"Something convincing — enough that Level Four takes the bait. Less than they want, more than they expect."
Vance turned. "What are we using?"
Corbin set the photograph on the desk. Mercer's handwritten notes beside it. Then the page he'd written that night.
Vance read it. "You want them to think Mercer found the Director? The Architect?"
"No. I want them to think I found something about my own history — what the Architect wants to be true. A reason to come to the warehouse."
"What did you find?"
"I haven't decided."
A thin smile crossed Vance's face. "Helpful. Obscurity is your specialty."
"Yes."
Vance shook his head. "You want them chasing a ghost story."
"They already are," Corbin said.
Vance typed the message. Attached the scanned photograph. Added the GPS coordinates. Nothing else.
"No message at all?" Vance said.
"The photograph is the message," Corbin said. "Send it to Blackbriar's primary relay."
"If they don't buy it?"
"They will. It's what they've been looking for."
"And if they send more than a team?"
"Then we learn something," Corbin said.
Vance pressed enter. The message vanished.
The screen held. Then a chime.
Vance checked the telemetry. "Opened."
"How long?"
"Seven seconds."
Vance let out a breath. "Someone was waiting on it."
"Someone's been waiting ten years," Corbin said.
Corbin pulled up his collar.
"You think they'll send a team?"
"They've spent a decade trying to find me." He put on his heavy dark coat and went for the door.
"Corbin."
He paused.
"Don't get comfortable being found," Vance said.
"I won't," Corbin said.
* * *
Samantha was on the couch when Corbin came in. She looked up.
"You've been gone all night."
"Yes."
"Is everything okay?"
"Not exactly."
She set her book down. "Corbin, don't give me one word and hope it counts as an explanation. Is this about your past?"
"The past I don't talk about. Yes."
"Is it dangerous?"
"Yes."
She studied his face. "This is the part where you tell me not to worry."
"Don't worry," he said.
"See?" She folded her arms. "Terrible at it. Are you in danger?"
"Probably. I don't know enough yet."
"That's not an answer either."
"It's the only honest one I have."
She stood and smoothed her sweater. "Where are you going now?"
"Out."
"That's not an answer."
"I know."
She stepped closer. "Are you coming back?"
The question stopped him. He hadn't factored for it. Finally, he nodded. "Yes."
"You hesitated," she said.
"I was deciding how to say yes and mean it."
"Should I keep dinner warm?"
"Don't wait up."
"I always wait up." She held his gaze. "Promise me you'll come back."
He hesitated. "Yes."
"You are truly terrible at lying."
The corner of his mouth moved. "I know."
She opened the front door for him. "Then don't start now. Be careful."
"I am," he said.
He stepped into the hallway. Looked back once. Then went down the stairs.