Page 165 of Tracked and Taken

“Hi,” she says.

“Charlie.” Thane’s voice. “Thane.”

“Hi, Thane.”

“I know the methodology.”

A pause.

“You — what?”

“The intercept. Three operators. Cargo-bay grab. Professional knowledge of the route, the cargo, and the female. I have been tracking the same operators for six months. Different cargo. Same hands.”

She sets her tea down.

“You are kidding me?”

“I am not, Charlie, a male who jokes.”

“That is a very unconvincing claim coming from a male holding a teacup like that.”

The room goes still.

Thane looks at the cup.

He looks at Charlie.

His mouth moves. It is not a smile, but the plate below his jaw moves a quarter-inch. The teal-blue along his cheekbone deepens by the smallest measure.

He says, in the deadpan that is his entire vocal register:

“It is a small cup, Charlie.”

The snort comes out before she can absorb it.

Loud this time. Surprised. Her hand goes to her mouth half a second too late, and her shoulders shake once, and her ears go pink at the tops.

“Sorry,” she says, into her hand. “Sorry, I — sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Charlie.”

“I — yeah, that’s not — give me a second.”

JINX, private channel: “Logged.”

Charlie’s hand comes off her mouth. She picks her tea up. Her ears are still pink.

“So,” she says to the desk. “The methodology.”

“The methodology. We will find your dataset. We will find the operators. We will find what they were taking your data to.”

“You think there’s a place?”

“I am certain there is.”

“All right,” she says, quieter.

She takes the notebook out of her side pocket. Sets it on Flossie’s desk. Slides it across.