The Indiana highway stretched quiet and long — flat lands on either side, a few scattered trees, telephone lines like old sentinels. The kind of road where the silence presses into your ears.
Inside the black BMW, Naomi sat in the backseat, jaw clenched, fingers tapping lightly on her thigh. Two SUVs — one gray, one white — rolled in sync, front and back, government plates, tinted windows. Escort protocol. Nothing out of place. On the surface.
But her mind was spinning.
Not in fear. Not yet.In questions.
What the hell is in that drive? Why is it encrypted with two layers of Q-encryption protocols? Why does DARPA need it hand-delivered? And why Andre? What game is he even playing?
She glanced at the thin black case in her lap — the drive. Just metal. Just hardware. But it felt radioactive.
Don't ask. Don't touch. Just deliver.
Her training kicked in. Eyes forward.
Then the truck in front — a red semi hauling steel pipes — jerked violently.
No warning. No brake lights.
