“Don’t wake her,” the guard whispered, but Gabriel froze when he noticed the baby’s tiny hand gripping Claire’s shirt—and the secret she carried.

An hour later, the safe house was wrapped in a tense, hushed quiet.

Dr. Vance, an aging underground surgeon with graying hair and tired eyes, packed up his medical bag after stitching a nasty laceration on Claire’s shoulder, wrapping her ribs in tight compression tape, and dressing the split knuckles on her hands.

“She’ll live,” Vance muttered, wiping his hands on a sterile towel as he stood beside the bed in the master bedroom. “Severe exhaustion, mild concussion, three cracked ribs, and soft-tissue trauma across her wrists. Give her the painkillers every six hours, keep her warm, and for God’s sake, let her sleep for at least twelve hours straight. If she tries to get up and fight another syndicate goon tonight, she’ll puncture a lung.”

Gabriel stood beside the bed, looking down at Claire. She was sleeping deeply now, her breathing slow and even under a thick wool blanket. The harsh overhead light cast deep shadows beneath her swollen cheekbones, making her look impossibly young and vulnerable.

“Is she going to have any permanent damage?” Gabriel asked, his voice chillingly low.

“Physically? No. She’s remarkably resilient for someone whose primary exercise is pushing buttons on a calculator,” Vance said with a dry, humorless smile. “Mentally? Well, that’s another story. People don't survive situations like that without a little psychological fallout. Nightmares are guaranteed.”

“Get out,” Gabriel said flatly.

Vance didn't argue. He grabbed his bag, nodded to Mason in the doorway, and let himself out of the room.

Gabriel remained standing by the bed. He reached down, pulling the blanket up higher over Claire’s shoulder to tuck her in. His fingers brushed against her wrist, lingering for a fraction of a second over the dark, ugly purple bruises left behind by the zip-ties.

A cold, dark rage stirred in the pit of his stomach. Damian Cross was going to pay for every single mark on her skin.

“Boss,” Mason whispered from the doorway, breaking into his thoughts.

Gabriel turned his head, stepping quietly away from the bed so as not to wake Claire. He walked out into the dimly lit hallway, pulling the door half-closed behind him.

“What is it?” Gabriel asked.

“We decrypted the phone we recovered from the lead mercenary who hit the convoy,” Mason said, handing Gabriel a shattered, blood-stained smartphone wrapped in an evidence bag. “Our tech guy pulled the deleted call logs and local storage files before the screen went completely dead.”

Gabriel looked down at the phone. “And?”

“It wasn't a random hit, boss. Cross didn't just stumble onto the transport route.” Mason’s voice dropped to a grim whisper. “Someone inside our corporate financial division leaked the exact manifest, the license plate numbers of the decoy vehicles, and the secondary transit schedule.”

Gabriel’s eyes went dark as abyssal water. A traitor. Inside his own fortress.

“Who?” Gabriel hissed.

“That’s the thing,” Mason replied, sliding a printed financial spreadsheet out of his inner jacket pocket. “Our tech guy traced the data packet upload timestamp. It originated from an internal terminal on the forty-fifth floor.”

Gabriel’s brow knitted together. The forty-fifth floor was restricted space. Only three people had clearance to access the executive terminal after hours: Gabriel himself, his chief financial officer, and...

“Claire,” Gabriel whispered, the name dropping like a lead weight between them.

Mason hesitated, shifting uncomfortably on his boots. “Boss... she had access to every account, every security route, and every financial asset in the syndicate. She’s been auditing our shell companies for two years. If Cross bought her off—”

“Shut your mouth,” Gabriel snarled, the sudden violence in his tone making Mason flinch.

“Boss, I’m just looking at the data—”

“You’re looking at circumstantial garbage!” Gabriel stepped close to his captain, his chest heaving with suppressed fury. “Claire Bennett just drove twenty-eight miles through a blizzard with cracked ribs and a kidnapped baby to keep my nephew out of Cross’s hands! If she was working for Cross, she could have handed Eli over to the mercenaries at the warehouse and walked away with a million dollars in her pocket! Instead, she beat a man to death with a fire extinguisher!”

Mason fell silent, realizing the undeniable logic in Gabriel’s words. If Claire had been a traitor, her actions at the warehouse made zero tactical sense.

“Then why did the data packet originate from her terminal?” Mason asked quietly.

Gabriel stared at the printed spreadsheet in his hand, his sharp mind racing through the variables, the security logs, and the corporate hierarchy.

“Because someone used her login credentials,” Gabriel said, realization dawning with terrifying clarity. “Someone who had access to her office while she was downstairs in the cafeteria. Someone who wanted to frame her for the leak so we would eliminate our own best auditor before she noticed where the money was actually disappearing.”

Gabriel’s jaw set into a lethal line.

“Find out who accessed the forty-fifth floor terminal between 4:00 PM and 5:30 PM today,” Gabriel ordered, handing the paper back to Mason. “I want their name, their bank accounts, and their current location within twenty minutes.”