Evelyn and Liam maintained their concealed position on the ridge, observing the compound as dawn crept over the Arizona desert. The subtle light illuminated the huge, white dome of Vance's astronomical observatory—the centerpiece of his alleged "private astrobiology research."
"If he's going to communicate, it has to be through his work," Evelyn confirmed, shivering slightly despite the heavy tactical gear. "He's rich enough to have high-powered instruments. He's going to use them to project a signal that looks like background data, but holds a message."
"A coded transmission disguised as scientific research," Liam mused, setting up a high-powered directional antenna. "He knows his equipment is monitored by Aethel's digital security. They'll see the broadcast, log the data as a routine test, and dismiss it. But we'll be watching for the deviation."
Marcus, operating remotely from his secure city apartment, was their only link to the outside world and the necessary computing power. Evelyn used the secure comms to relay her theory.
"Marcus, we need you to intercept any outgoing high-frequency radio transmissions from the Vance compound," Evelyn requested. "Filter it against all known astronomy data and look for a sequence that stands out. Look for the word."
"A word?" Marcus's voice crackled back with typical skepticism. "You think a multi-millionaire astrophysicist is going to Morse code you across the desert?"
"He's going to use a sequence of pulses that spells out a time and a place," Evelyn insisted. "Something only a scientist would use as a key. He's not going to use letters. He's going to use a frequency shift or a pulsar sequence that corresponds to a real-world location."
Hours passed in strained silence. The sun climbed higher, beating down on the rocks. Liam meticulously maintained their security, constantly scanning the perimeter for any signs of movement. Evelyn watched the observatory dome, which remained inert under the heat.
Finally, just after noon, the massive white dome began to rotate, and the aperture slid open, revealing the enormous primary dish.
"He's live," Liam confirmed, adjusting the directional antenna.
"Marcus, he's transmitting," Evelyn said into the comms. "It should be disguised as a deep-space survey. Look for anomalies."
For ten excruciating minutes, the signal flowed—a torrent of complex, noisy data. Then, Marcus's voice returned, suddenly sharp with excitement.
"I have it! He sent a burst. It's a series of tightly grouped pulses, repeated three times. It's not a word, Evelyn. It's a number sequence."
"Give it to me, Marcus!"
"It translates to: 33.7915, -118.0772, 02:00."
Evelyn and Liam looked at each other, instantly recognizing the format.
"Coordinates," Liam breathed, pulling up a geo-mapping program on his tactical tablet. He rapidly entered the numbers. "The coordinates point directly to San Pedro Harbor, Los Angeles. Specifically, an area of decommissioned shipping docks and old fishing vessels."
"And the time?" Evelyn asked, though she already knew the answer.
"02:00," Liam confirmed. "Two o'clock in the morning. He's arranging a rendezvous at the most chaotic, least-monitored area of the harbor. High traffic, high visibility, but easy for one man to disappear."
"He knows we have to move fast," Evelyn said, already gathering her gear. "He's not expecting us to stay out here. He's banking on us being able to reach the city tonight."
"It's a seven-hour drive, and we have to drop this disposable rental and acquire new transport," Liam calculated, his tactical mind already four steps ahead. "It's doable, but we have to leave now."
As they began their long, hot sprint back to where they'd left the car, Evelyn knew the shadow war was escalating. They were no longer just tracking a story; they were executing a rescue. Dr. Elias Vance was not just a witness; he was a desperate man breaking free, and Julian Thorne would be watching the perimeter for any hint of his escape.
Their success was predicated on one thing: getting to Vance before Thorne's sophisticated network could trace the movement of the one thing his money could never truly control—the movement of a desperate man's free will.