Page 92 of Anchor
She stepped back, just enough to breathe. And in that tiny space, everything inside her shifted. The ache was still there, but something colder and sharper settled in behind it.
“I want a system port,” she said, voice steady now. “All logs. Full visibility. No blocks.”
Movement in her periphery. A hesitation. Someone trying to disappear against the console like he’d been built into the wall.
Ian’s voice cut through the air instead. “Terry, give her what she wants.”
She heard the faint click of access authorization, the sound of her leash snapping free.
Then Zach Wentworth appeared. She hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t seen him come in, but the temperature of the room changed the moment he did.
Ian turned toward him, eyes sharper now, something molten beneath the control. “I want Heather Bowman in my office. Senator or not, I don’t care if she has half the Intelligence Committee in her pocket.”
Zach’s brow lifted. “What am I authorized to use?”
Ian met his gaze without blinking. “All of it.”
Zach’s mouth curved, just slightly. “And what do you want left when I’m done?”
Ian didn’t hesitate. “Enough for a funeral speech.”
Zach nodded once. No surprise. He understood.
By then, Claire was already in the system. The drive paths lit up under her fingers, familiar interfaces turning fluid and alive. She dove deeper—logs, access strings, trace echoes. Layers upon layers of buried data waiting to be dragged into daylight.
Terry hovered behind her, silent, watching like someone standing too close to a live wire. The hum of the terminals filled the space, rhythmic and tense.
Claire didn’t look up. Her voice was calm now, cool as metal. “Tell me what you’ve found.”
Zach Wentworth was a dominant.Control wasn’t something he wore. It was who he was. And Heather Bowman, Ann Arbor’smost politically protected figure, would be no match for him, especially behind closed doors.
He stood still as stone, back straight, hands folded behind him like he didn’t need to lean on anything. The office was dark, lit only by the frost-blue ambient lighting and the soft glow of encrypted monitors.
The door opened. Senator Heather Bowman entered with a flourish of authority, draped in gray silk and disdain. She didn’t wait to be invited to speak. “Where’s my daughter?”
Zach didn’t flinch. “Safe. You’re still going down that road?”
Heather narrowed her eyes. “And you are?”
“Someone with permission to ask you questions you don’t want to answer. My name is Zach Wentworth, Chief Executive Officer of Chase International’s Domestic Law Enforcement Division.”
She scoffed. “This is a mistake.”
Zach tilted his head, stepping slowly around the desk like a circling wolf. “Not the first you’ve made. But it might be the last.”
“You think you can intimidate me?”
“No,” Zach said quietly. “I can dismantle you, with your own words, your own signatures, and the people you thought were protecting you.”
Heather’s smile faltered.
“I want everything,” Zach said. “Every backchannel you’ve run through Ann Arbor. Every conversation you’ve had with the Appropriations Committee. Every directive you passed through third-party contractors.”
Her jaw tightened. “You have no proof.”
“You’re right,” he said calmly. “You’re going to give it to me.”
The door shut behind them. Locked. When Zach stepped closer, Heather Bowman finally stopped smiling.
