Page 82 of Code Name: Atticus
The drive northstretched before us like a tunnel with no end. Nearly three hours on Highway 101 at night, the road winding through darkness broken only by the occasional lights from small towns, the distant glow of San Francisco ahead like a false dawn. Atticus drove with both hands on the wheel, knuckles white against the leather.
We made intermittent attempts at conversation.
“Remember when Luke stood up for you with Colonel Richards?” I said.
“I remember,” Atticus replied quietly.
“He risked his own standing to help you.”
“I know, Brenna.”
Long silences stretched between these exchanges.
I stared out the passenger window at the dark California landscape rushing past—hills and valleys I couldn’t see, exits for towns I’d never visit, a world continuing normally while mine collapsed.
I alternated between “there must be an explanation” and “but what if…” The conversation we’d overheard kept replaying in my mind.
Luke, who’d taught me to ride a bike in our driveway, running alongside me for hours, never showing frustration when I fell for the twentieth time. His voice echoed in my memory. “You’ve got this, Bug. I won’t let you fall. And if you do, I’ll catch you.”
Who’d carried me home on his back when I twisted my ankle during a family hike in Shenandoah, making up stories about the trees and rocks to distract me from the pain. It was overthree miles, and he’d never once complained about my weight or suggested I try to walk.
My big brother who’d driven through a blizzard to be at my college graduation when flights were canceled, arriving just as they called my name. The pride on his face when I’d walked across that stage had meant more than the diploma itself.
Luke who’d spent three days at my apartment after my bad breakup with David, not saying a word when I cried into his shoulder, just being there. He’d made me eat when I had no appetite, made me laugh when I thought I’d never smile again, never once saying, “I told you so,” even though he’d warned me about David from the beginning.
Luke who’d stood in the rain at Arlington National Cemetery as we buried our grandfather, his hand never leaving mine through the entire service. “He would’ve been so proud of you,” Luke had whispered as they folded the flag and handed it to our father. “A prosecutor fighting for justice, just like he always talked about.”
The memories crashed over me in waves, each one making the current situation more impossible. This was Luke. My protector. My champion. My best friend before I’d even understood what friendship meant.
We reachedthe Sausalito house just after one in the morning. Zero one hundred. But I couldn’t think in military time. It reminded me of Luke. Everything did.
When we pulled up, the familiar structure looked the same but felt completely foreign, like returning to a childhood home to find it on the wrong street. Even in the wrong town.
Kodiak and Emma immediately transformed the dining room into a command center. Their laptops opened with soft chimes while secure phones charged with tiny LED indicators,and encrypted connections were established with quiet electronic handshakes. The house that had felt like a sanctuary when we left it, where Atticus and I had played at being married, now felt like a war room where battle plans would be drawn against my own brother.
“What if we misunderstood what we heard?” I asked Emma.
“We have to follow the evidence,” she replied.
“Even if it destroys an innocent man?”
Her eyes met mine, but she didn’t respond.
One-thirty came and went,each minute an eternity. Two o’clock. Two-fifteen. Two-thirty. I paced the living room, unable to sit still, unable to think clearly. Atticus stood at the window, a silent sentinel watching the bay as if answers might sail in with the fog. Emma worked quietly at her laptop, occasionally exchanging encrypted messages with the team. Kodiak monitored multiple screens, his usual jokes replaced with focused intensity.
The coffeemaker gurgled. The clock on the wall ticked with metronomic persistence. My phone sat dark on the table—I couldn’t bear to look at it, to see if Luke had texted again, to see his name, reread his message, like nothing in our lives had changed.
Admiral and Tank arrived at two-forty. The private jet from New York had made good time, but the weight of what we were dealing with showed in the lines around his eyes and the set of his jaw.
By then, Alice had compiled what they’d found—evidence discovered only after seeing Luke at the resort, patterns that became suspicious only in this new context.
“Three deposits to Redpoint accounts over the past week,” Admiral said after initiating the videoconference with Alice,Dragon, and Tex. He spread printouts across the dining table where, just days ago, Atticus and I had shared breakfast like a real couple. “Each structured just under federal reporting limits—$9,900, $9,850, $9,920. Classic structuring to avoid detection.”
“Luke’s credentials were used to access classified systems five times in the past seven days,” Alice said, then added, “This all appears very recent, despite some attempts to backdate.”
“There’s also encrypted communication metadata from the past week, backdated to look older,” said Tex.
“These could be mistakes. Coincidences,” I suggested.
