S.A.S.
“And don’t die. I am professionally invested in you being alive.”
“Noted,” Jack said.
02:51 A.M. — “THE SWITCHBOARD,” KINGSTON LIGHT INDUSTRIAL
The warehouse’s roller door lifted a handspan and Ezra Pike appeared upside down in the gap, hanging from a gymnastics ring like a cheerful bat. Thin, bearded, wired on sugar and spite.
“You look like a bad decision in a good suit,” he chirped, dropping to the concrete. “What hole do you need?”
“Every hole,” Jack said. “Ghost IMSI-catchers, elevator overrides, firmware patches—whatever stole thirty seconds from six crime scenes and a heartbeat from a car bomb.”
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