The phone on Holloway's desk rang at 9:47 PM, a secure line that bypassed UCL's internal switchboard and connected directly to a number that existed in no directory, no database, no record that could be subpoenaed or traced. Holloway stared at it for three rings, four, five, watching the small green light pulse with the rhythm of a heartbeat that was not his own. He knew who it was. He had known since Harold Vance walked out of the parking garage with an envelope and a debt, since Kellerman nodded his approval of destruction, since the conference room emptied and left him standing among the wreckage of a career he had helped end.
He picked up on the sixth ring.
"Done." His voice emerged rough, compressed, the sound of a man speaking through a throat that wanted to close against the words it was forced to shape. "Harold Vance is out. The position is clear. Your candidate can come in now."
