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Comm scratched his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Everything was right here.”

Windermere glanced at Stevens. Then back at the Killswitch database. Comm had entered his password and logged in to the Special Projects page. But the page had come back empty. There was nothing in the database.

“What were you expecting?” she said.

Comm looked at her. “Everything,” he said. “My correspondence with Killswitch. My application.”

“Job was finished,” said Windermere. “No sense leaving the evidence kicking around. Especially if he figured there’s a chance you’d tell the cops.”

Stevens stared at the blank screen. “So what do we do?”

“Guess we try and trace the website.” Windermere walked to the door. Poked her head out. “Hey,” she called. “Ojeda.”

PARKERSON RUSHED BACK to his office, board meeting be damned. Jamie stood up as he passed. “Mr. Parkerson?”

“Just a minute.” He hurried past her and closed the door behind him. Logged on to his computer and turned on the virtual network. Booted up the IP cloaker for good measure. Then he brought up the Killswitch database.

This was dangerous. He’d never used Killswitch during work hours. He’d certainly never ditched on a board meeting to tend to the project. This was panic behavior, irrational. This would attract attention from the chairman, from Jamie. But Parkerson had to know.

He waited as the database loaded, drumming his fingers on the desk. When the page was fully loaded, he searched through until he found Comm. Still online. Parkerson clicked on his name.

Logged in from Miami, the database told him. Spat out an IP address. Parkerson copied it down and ran a trace. Felt his heart stop as he read the results. Comm was logged on through a federal government server in Miami. Parkerson checked the address, knowing already what the search would find. A moment later, his fears were confirmed. Someone in the FBI’s Miami office was inside the Killswitch database. Somehow, they’d logged in as Comm.