Noah was asleep when his phone rang at 12:34 AM. He answered immediately, recognizing the night supervisor's number.
"We have a situation at the Vega safe house. Marshals aren't responding to check-in protocols. Local police are responding now."
Noah was out of bed instantly. "I'm en route. Call Coe, get a tactical team mobilized. And get someone to the family location right now—if the witness site is compromised, they might be next."
He dressed while running to his car, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios. Equipment malfunction. False alarm. Medical emergency.
Or hostile action.
He made the twenty-minute drive in fourteen, emergency lights flashing. As he approached the suburban street, he could see patrol cars, their lights washing the quiet neighborhood in red and blue. Neighbors were starting to emerge, drawn by the commotion.
Coe met him at the perimeter. His expression told Noah everything before he said a word.
"Roberts and Kim are alive—sedated, just coming around. But Vega..." Coe paused. "He's gone, Noah. Single gunshot to the chest, close range. Professional hit."
Noah felt something cold and hard settle in his chest. "When?"
"ME estimates between thirty minutes and an hour ago. Shooter used a suppressor, got past all our security, incapacitated two trained marshals, executed our witness, and walked away clean."
Noah pushed past the perimeter tape and entered the house. The scene was controlled chaos—crime scene techs photographing everything, the medical examiner examining Vega's body, the two marshals being interviewed by investigators.
Marcus Vega lay on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood, his eyes still open, his expression frozen in what might have been surprise or resignation. Thirty-six years old, former Marine, father of two. He'd done the right thing—cooperated, testified, tried to stop being part of a criminal organization.
And the federal government had failed to keep him alive for even four days.
Noah knelt beside the body, studying the wound. Single shot, high chest, probably severed major blood vessels. Quick but not instant—Vega would have had a minute or two of consciousness before death. Had he tried to call for help? Had he understood why this was happening?
Dr. Martinez arrived and crouched beside Noah. "I'll do the full autopsy, but preliminary assessment is straightforward. Nine millimeter round, close range, instantly incapacitating. He probably died within two or three minutes."
"The marshals?"
"Drugged with a fast-acting sedative, probably administered via dart or injection. They never had a chance to react." She looked at Noah with sympathy. "This wasn't random, wasn't opportunistic. Someone planned this carefully, knew the security protocols, knew exactly how to defeat them."
Noah stood and walked to where Roberts and Kim were being questioned. Both looked shaken, angry, humiliated.
"What happened?" Noah asked directly.
Roberts struggled to focus. "We were doing the hourly perimeter check. I remember feeling a sudden sharp pain in my neck, like a bee sting. Then nothing. I woke up maybe twenty minutes ago."
"Did you see anyone? Hear anything unusual before you were hit?"
"Nothing. One second I was checking the back door, the next I was waking up on the floor."
Kim's account was identical. Professional hit, executed with precision, leaving no witnesses and minimal evidence.
Coe pulled Noah aside. "The family?"
"Secured. I had a team move them immediately to a new location, one that nobody on the original protection detail knows about. If there's a leak, I'm not taking chances."
"There's definitely a leak," Noah said flatly. "This location was classified. Only a handful of people knew where Vega was being held. Someone gave that information to HTBB."
"Or they followed him from headquarters."
"Through our countersurveillance? Past our security protocols? No. They knew where he was because someone told them."
Sarah Reeves arrived, tablet in hand. "I've been pulling records. Twelve people had access to Vega's safe house location—six DEA agents including you and Coe, four US Marshals including Roberts and Kim, and two administrative personnel who processed the paperwork."
"Start investigating all of them. Financial records, communication logs, anything that might indicate they're compromised. And do it quietly—if the leak is someone senior, we can't let them know we're looking."
Noah's phone rang—Garcia. "Noah, remember that suspicious account I mentioned? The monthly payments from HTBB to a federal employee?"
"Yeah."
"I've got the name. You're not going to like it."
"Tell me."
"Deputy US Marshal Thomas Brennan. Fifteen-year veteran, currently assigned to the witness protection program. He's been receiving five thousand dollars a month from HTBB for the past two years."
Noah felt his jaw clench. A deputy US marshal, someone sworn to protect witnesses, someone with access to classified safe house locations and security protocols. Someone who would have known exactly where Marcus Vega was being held.
"Where is Brennan now?"
"That's the other problem. He called in sick yesterday, hasn't been seen since. His apartment is empty, his personal vehicle is gone, his phone is off."
"He ran."
"Looks that way. Either he knew we were closing in, or HTBB warned him after using his information."
Noah turned to Coe. "Put out a federal warrant for Thomas Brennan. Fugitive from justice, conspiracy to commit murder, corruption of a federal officer. I want every law enforcement agency in the country looking for him."
"On it."
Noah walked back to where Vega's body lay. The crime scene techs were documenting everything, but Noah knew they wouldn't find much. Whoever had done this—and he had no doubt it was Vancouver Sell personally—had been too professional to leave useful evidence.
Martinez approached again. "Noah, there's something else. We found this in Vega's hand."
She held up an evidence bag containing a small piece of paper, crumpled and blood-stained. Noah took it and read the barely legible handwriting, written in Vega's last moments:
INSIDE. BRENNAN.
Even dying, Marcus Vega had tried to warn them.