Page 52 of Mane Brew

12

RHODES

I’ve expanded on the pattern Zeph identified last night. The evidence spreads across the table like an accusation.

Three years of records. Incident reports. Patrol schedules. Communication logs. Every piece meticulously filed, cross-referenced, and annotated in my own careful hand. I’ve spent all day pulling files from cabinets I haven’t opened in months, searching for patterns I didn’t want to find.

I found them anyway.

The Archive Building is silent at this hour, when even the most dedicated pride members have retreated to their dens. Moonlight streams through the tall windows, casting long shadows across file cabinets that contain the recorded history of Sunridge pride. My history. My legacy. My obsessive need to document everything, preserved in paper and ink.

Tonight, that obsession has become a weapon turned inward.

I pull another file. Shipping route modifications from eighteen months ago. A small change—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. The modification allowed a specific shipment to pass through Network checkpoints without standard inspection. The authorization came from my office.

I didn’t sign it.

But someone with access to my office did.

Something paces beneath my skin, restless and agitated. It doesn’t like what I’m finding. Neither do I. But the evidence doesn’t care about our preferences.

Information leaks dating back two years. Patrol schedules that somehow reached Preserver cells before they reached my own people. Convenient absences during critical operations—absences I excused because the excuses came from someone I trusted.

Izag.

The name sits heavy in my chest. My second-in-command. My childhood friend. The lion who stood at my right hand through fifteen years of leadership, who knew my protocols and my schedules and my blind spots.

Who knew exactly how to exploit them.

I pull another file. Meeting notes from just over a year ago, when the first mated pair formed—Leire and Aslan. Izag’s comments in the margin: Unprecedented. Concerning. Recommend monitoring.

At the time, I agreed with him. The matings were unprecedented. They were concerning. Monitoring seemed reasonable.

Now I see the words differently. Not caution. Calculation.

Another file. A supply requisition from the raid on Duskfire Brewery. Equipment that should have been in position wasn’t. The delay was blamed on a scheduling error. The error originated from Izag’s department.

He delayed our response. Gave the Preservers extra time.

My hands curl into fists. The paper crumples. I force myself to release it, smooth the document flat, file it properly.

Documentation requires discipline. Especially when it’s destroying everything you thought you knew.

The door creaks open.

Every instinct snaps to attention. I don’t need to look up to know who it is—I recognize his footsteps, his scent, the particular weight of his presence. I’ve known these things since we were cubs wrestling in the tall grass of Sunridge territory.

“Rhodes.” Izag’s confusion sounds carefully constructed. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

I look up. Meet his gaze with none of the warmth I’ve shown him for thirty years.

“Reviewing files.”

“In the middle of the night?” He crosses toward the table, his manner unhurried. Unconcerned. “The raid was successful. The Preservers are captured. What could possibly need reviewing at this hour?”

“Patterns.” I gesture at the spread. “Inconsistencies. Information that should have been secure but wasn’t.”

His steps slow. Just slightly. A hesitation so brief anyone else would miss it.