Angelina takes it in. The operational displays. The equipment no private security company needs. The people who use it.
She does not ask questions. She just... sees.
Good. She sees. She stays.
Kade meets us at the threshold. His eyes move from Angelina to me, reading whatever he finds in our expressions.
"You stay for this briefing," he says, "you don't talk about what we are. Ever."
"I understand."
"To anyone. Not FBI. Not Sal. No one."
She holds his gaze. "I'm Sal's niece. I know how secrets work."
A beat. Kade nods.
We move to the planning table where the team is already assembled. The smell of fresh coffee cuts through the recycled air—Miguel handled it before heading back to medical.
Angelina's fingers find mine as we settle into adjacent chairs. Natural, unremarked.
She is wearing the same clothes from yesterday—my shirt, her jeans. Hair pulled back in a knot that is already loosening. The hollow at the base of her throat catches the blue light from the screens.
Focus.
"We have a name for the Gardener." Kade stands at the head of the table, tablet in hand. The main screen behind him displays a professional headshot. Academic, composed. "Victoria Lockwood."
The photo enlarges. Dark hair pulled back. Pale green eyes that seem wet even in a static image. The permanent furrow between her brows that I dismissed as academic intensity when I first reviewed the courtroom footage.
Twenty feet from Angelina. I was watching Adrian. Missed the real threat.
"Dr. Victoria Lockwood. Toxicology researcher." Kade pulls up a second image on the adjacent screen. "Lost her twin sister Rose to a trafficking ring three years ago."
Silence. The second photo holds the room. Rose Lockwood. Identical face. Same dark hair, same pale eyes. Red stamp across the corner: MISSING PERSON.
"She's been testifying in federal courts as an expert witness. Defense side. Pharmaceutical evidence, chain of custody—legitimate credentials, legitimate work." Kade's gaze sweeps the table. "That's why no one looked twice at her."
"She testified in my courtroom." Angelina's voice is steady. Professional. The judge speaking, not the woman whose hand tightens in mine. "Two weeks ago. DeLuca case."
My thumb traces across her knuckles. Once. Controlled.
"Fourteen judges dead across seven states." The map lights up behind Kade. Red markers spreading from Texas through the Southwest, into California. "Started in Houston. Spread west. All trafficking-adjacent cases."
"How'd we find her?" Asher asks from his terminal.
Kade's jaw unclenches, barely. "Vanessa."
Vanessa spins her chair to face the table, already talking before she's fully turned. "Okay, so the feds were looking at geography, right? The spread pattern, the 'moving west' thing. But that's not what connects them." Her fingers move quickly, pulling up displays. "I kept thinking. Okay, Han, show them the sentencing data—" She's talking to her computer. "Every dead judge? Harsh sentencing records on trafficking cases. High conviction rates. Long sentences. That's not random spread. That's a hit list."
"She's taking out the judges who actually put traffickers away." Jax shakes his head slowly. "That's... backwards. Sister gets trafficked, so she starts clearing the track for moretraffickers? That's not revenge. That's—" He stops. Doesn't finish.
"That's what made it hard to see." Vanessa pulls up another screen. Court appearance records, flight manifests, hotel bookings. "But here's the pattern the FBI totally missed. Expert witnesses fly in, testify, fly out. Like, two days max. Victoria? She extends her hotel stays. Two weeks. Three weeks. Every. Single. Time."
The pattern visualizes itself. Testimony dates. Extended hotel bookings. Death dates.
Patient. Methodical.
"She sticks around," Damian says from his terminal. "Waits."