Trevor woke at 7:00 a.m. Yesterday had been thrilling; last night had been pleasant. He reached across the bed, but the sheets were cool and empty. Following the rhythmic sizzle of oil and the scent of toasted bread, he found Alisa in the kitchen. She was dressed in the same jeans and off-white sweater from the day before, now protected by a dark brown apron.
“You’re finally up,” Alisa said, glancing over her shoulder as she killed the flame on the stove. “Fried eggs and toast. I think the yolks are just right.”
“Thanks,” Trevor said, a sleepy, grateful smile tugging at his lips. “Coffee or a latte? I’ll make it once I’ve showered.”
“I won’t wait for you,” Alisa murmured, plating the eggs.
After a quick wash, Trevor retreated to the bedroom to pull on a gray shirt and matching lounge pants. He snagged his phone from the nightstand and was already scrolling through his notifications by the time he reached the kitchen.
Alisa was already mid-breakfast at the kitchen island, a spread of toast and golden fried eggs laid out before her. “I brewed a pot,” she said, gesturing toward the two mugs. “The coffee’s black; help yourself to the milk.”
“Style texted me,” Trevor said, sitting down and sliding his phone onto the marble counter. “He says I’m officially ‘invited to the game.’ Any idea what that means?”
“Sounds dramatic,” Alisa hummed, taking a slow sip of her coffee. “You boys certainly love your games.”
“It’s likely about the case,” Trevor said, snagging a slice of toast. He took a quick bite before balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder to call Style back. “Hey, Style. What’s the word? Is this about the case?”
“Exactly. I need a lead on Hector Tin’s current location,” Style’s voice was crisp and businesslike. “The FIA found his phone plugged in and charging at the hideout. It’s bothering me. Why keep a stolen phone alive unless it’s a vital link? We need to see what’s inside it.”
“He’s likely with Camila or back with his pack. I’ll check with her now; we can all head over together.”
“Perfect. Bring Spion into the loop, too.”
“On it. See you soon.”
Once he hung up, Trevor fired off a text to Camila. Her reply was almost instantaneous: “He’s at my place. Come straight over.” He relayed the update to Style, confirming they’d move out in twenty minutes, and forwarded the schedule to Spion.
“I’m heading to Camila’s with Style and Spion,” he told Alisa, pocketing his phone. “We’ve got a lead on the case that can’t wait.”
“Do you really think the three of you can dismantle a terrorist cell on your own?” Alisa set down the butter knife, her breakfast forgotten as she looked at him with growing concern. “Have you even told your dad? There’s a targeted attack planned for a gala he’s attending.”
“I don’t want him and Monica panicking,” Trevor said, keeping his tone light even as his chest tightened. “The Soirée is a milestone for Monica. She’s pitching to investors for her modeling agency.”
He took another bite of his egg, forcing himself to look relaxed. Beneath the surface, the doubt was gnawing at him; if they failed, the FIA might not be enough to stop the carnage. But worrying was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Tomorrow, Lady News and Report Man would be back; he believed they would find a solution together. Until then, the only thing he could control was finishing his breakfast.
“And you?” Trevor asked. “What’s your day look like?”
“Shopping trip,” Alisa announced. “A blizzard is coming, and I need to prep before the shelves are picked clean. Want me to grab you anything? I noticed your vegetable drawer is currently a desert.”
“Thanks, but I have a better plan,” Trevor grinned, giving her a wink. “If I starve, I’m just going to show up at your door for a home-cooked meal.”
By the time Trevor reached Camila’s apartment, Style was already there. Spion was still en route from campus. Hector greeted them at the door, looking weary but safe.
“How are you holding up, Hector?” Trevor asked, his voice low with concern.
“Hanging in there, I suppose,” Hector replied, gesturing vaguely around the apartment. “I haven’t left since we slipped out of the Salon yesterday. Camila’s at the studio, but I don’t dare step past the front door. The paparazzi are thick out there, lenses trained on every exit.” He gave a weary, ironic half-smile. “The strange thing is, I think they’ve become my best defense. Hard to disappear a man when there are forty cameras watching his front door.”
Trevor smiled. Style didn’t; he knew those “paparazzi” were likely the secret agents, watching the perimeter until the previous night.
“Hector, we have a few questions. The FIA recovered your phone from Will and Bran’s place,” Style said, his voice dropping into a low, no-nonsense tone as he cut straight to the point.
“Is that… is that true? They did all of this to me?” Hector’s breath hitched. He sank onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands as the reality of the violation set in. “They are my buddies. I trust them.” He looked up, calmed down a little, and asked. “Where are they now? Are they in custody?”
“Will is dead,” Style said, his voice flat and devoid of sympathy. “Executed by his own people for failing to kill you. As for Bran, he’s gone to ground. He’s a ghost now, likely finalizing the logistics for the strike.”
Style leaned in, his eyes narrowing. “But here’s the anomaly: the FIA found your phone in their place. It wasn’t just sitting there; it was plugged in, charging. We don’t know why they need it to stay alive.”
“I took a picture,” Trevor said, pulling out his phone to show him.
Hector squinted at the screen, his brow furrowed. “I… I can’t be sure. The lock screen is generic. It could be anyone’s.”
“The FIA unlocked the phone; it’s yours, the account, SIM card, and all,” Style clarified. “My theory? They’re using it as a ‘clean’ relay. By routing their communications through your device, they stay off the grid. If the operation goes south, the digital trail leads back to you, not them.”
Hector looked pale. “What do you need from me? You want me to give the FIA my passcode?”
“Is your cloud sync active?” Style asked, leaning forward. “If your account is set to back up automatically, we don’t need the physical device. You just need to log into your account, then you might be able to view the synced call logs.”
“I… I have no idea,” Hector admitted, looking overwhelmed. “I don’t really mess with those settings.”
“You’d be surprised,” Trevor chimed in, his eyes bright with the logic of the system. “Most people opt-in without realizing it. During the initial setup, the ‘Enable Sync’ button is the default path. It’s designed to be clicked subconsciously. You probably enabled it the day you bought the phone.” He slid his own device across the table. “You can try logging into your account on my phone.”
“Don’t bother,” Style said, pulling a fresh 17 Pro from his bag. “I picked this up on the way. We don’t want to cross-contaminate your data with Trevor’s.”
“Right. I’ll give it a shot.” Hector nodded, unpacking the device with stiff fingers. He went through the setup rituals—Language, Wi-Fi, Account—until he hit the jackpot. The screen prompted a restore from the cloud backup. Following Trevor’s nod, he initiated the restore.
The data recovery was a slow, agonizing crawl. Time blurred as they sat in the quiet of the apartment, the only sound the low hum of the city outside. To kill the tension, Hector brewed a fresh pot of coffee and set out a plate of snacks, his movements mechanical. Finally, the new phone chimed, a clean, sharp sound that cut through the silence. The restore was complete.
Hector picked up the device, scrolling through a flood of notifications that felt like a lifetime of missed moments. There were dozens of frantic messages from Camila, concerned texts from colleagues, and voicemails from friends he hadn’t spoken to in months. A lump formed in his throat as he realized how many people had been mourning him while he was in that river. But as he scrolled deeper, the warmth vanished. One unsaved number stood out like a scar on the screen, a repetitive pattern of incoming and outgoing calls that didn’t belong to his life.
“This number… it’s not right,” Hector said, his voice dropping an octave as he slid the screen toward Style. “I don’t know it, but there’s a pattern here. Incoming, outgoing, they’ve been in constant contact with this person.”
Style didn’t wait for an explanation. He snatched the device, his eyes scanning the time stamps. Without a word, he pulled his own work phone from his coat, his fingers flying across the keypad as he mirrored the digits. He hit dial and pressed the phone to his ear, signaling for Trevor and Hector to stay silent as the first ring echoed through the room.
“Ja, bitte?” a deep, gravelly male voice answered.
“Hallo,” Style began, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register. To Trevor’s utter astonishment, he spoke in a sharp, effortless German. “Diese Nummer hat mir ein Freund gegeben… I was told to call this number if he went dark. I can’t reach him, and I’m beginning to fear the worst.”
There was a crackle of static before a voice, cold and devoid of emotion, answered from the other side. “Wer sind deine Freunde?”
“Bran Schmidt,” Style replied, his eyes locking onto Trevor’s.
A heavy, weighted silence stretched across the line. Trevor held his breath. Finally, the voice returned, sounding like grinding stones. “Die Operation hat begonnen und wird nicht gestoppt. Bitte kontaktieren Sie uns nicht erneut.”
Before Style could get another word in, the line clicked into a dead tone.
“What was that?” Trevor asked, confused by the sudden German exchange.
“That,” Style said, his eyes fixed on a map appearing on his own phone, “was a confirmation. I just back-traced the signal. He’s in Kings. Call Spion. We’re going.”