The back room of Nate's bar smelled of old wood and the cold still clinging to Gilbert's coat.
He didn't sit. He laid the photographs out in two rows—Layla's originals on top, satellite prints beneath them—and kept his hand flat on the table beside them like he was holding something down.
Nate pulled the overhead light lower. The leather creaked.
"So." Gilbert's voice was scraped raw at the edges. "Three weeks of satellite cross-reference. Registry traces. The shells Alex flagged but couldn't prove were connected."
He tapped the first pair.
"Parking structure on Clover. Layla shot it from the southeast corner." His finger moved to the satellite image beneath it. "Registered address for Blackwood Logistics Annex. Dormant since 2020. Never dissolved."
Next pair.
"Street corner. She stood across from the dry cleaner—you can see the awning in the reflection if you look. Two blocks from a holding company Alex marked unverifiable."
He went through all twelve.
