Page 83 of Code Name: Atticus
“This pattern…it’s not random, Brenna,” Atticus said, studying the data, his voice strained.
“But it’s Luke. Your best friend.”
“I know.” The conflict was evident in his tone.
Each piece of evidence felt like another stone added to my chest, making it harder to breathe.
“This is enough for probable cause,” Admiral said sometime after the sun had risen. His voice sounded heavy with the weight of the decision. “Not overwhelming proof, but enough for arrest warrants. The FBI will want to move quickly.”
When each new piece of evidence came in, Atticus asked questions—specific, targeted, clinical.
“Could someone else have used his credentials?”
“What were the exact timestamps on the system access?”
“Which encryption protocol was used for the communications?”
“What specific data was downloaded during each breach?”
He was suggesting possibilities, but the evidence kept contradicting them. His defense gradually weakened as more proof mounted.
I watched his increasing resignation with growing frustration.
“The FBI is prepared to move,” Admiral announced after ending a call, setting his phone down with finality. “Federal magistrate will review at zero nine hundred. With the evidence we have, warrants will be issued. Arrest teams will be briefed at ten hundred hours.”
“When will he be arrested?” I asked, my voice barely audible, as if speaking quietly might somehow make this less real.
“Eleven hundred hours. They’ll take him at his hotel. They want him in custody before he has a chance to flee or destroy evidence.”
Atticus stood at the window, studying something on his tablet. His shoulders were tense.
“We should be there,” Admiral said, gathering the papers into a folder. “Luke knows you both. Seeing familiar faces might prevent escalation, make him more likely to cooperate.”
“Agreed,” Atticus said, turning from the window.
“Maybe seeing us will help him explain—” I started.
“Or make him feel more betrayed,” Atticus said quietly.
The morning continuedto crawl by with agonizing slowness. But each hour brought us closer to the moment that would shatter everything. I attempted to eat something—Emma had made toast—but I couldn’t swallow. I tried to review the evidence again, but the words blurred. I thought about calling my parents, but had no idea what to say. Could I actually tell them not to warn my brother of what was about to happen?
At ten-thirty, we left in a convoy of black SUVs that moved too quickly through the sparse Sunday-morning traffic. I sat between Atticus and Emma in the middle row of the vehicle, my hands folded in my lap like a child in church, focusing on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Anything to keep from screaming, from demanding they stop, from calling Luke to warn him.
But I couldn’t. I was a federal prosecutor. I’d taken oaths. I had duties that superseded even family. Even when those duties meant helping destroy my own brother.
“There’s still time to stop this,” I said.
“The warrants are signed,” Atticus replied.
“But if we explained?—”
“Explained what? What we heard?”
Luke’s extended-stayhotel looked ordinary in the morning sun—a medium-rise building with a coffeehouse on the ground floor, the kind of place where tech workers lived for months while on projects. The vehicles surrounded it, and agents took positions at the exits. Everything was by the book, designed to prevent someone from escaping.
We climbed to the fourth floor. The hallway was empty except for our footsteps on the industrial carpet, the sound both muffled and somehow too loud. The numbers on the doors counted up like a countdown. 419. 421. 423. 425.
Room 427.
