The war room was empty when she got there.
Six-fifteen in the morning, the overhead lights still bleeding that weak, sleepy blue, but the map lamp was already burning—she'd stabbed it on the second she walked in. Route maps from four nights ago sprawled across her end of the table like autopsy photos. Fresh field reports beside them. She was rebuilding the operational picture from the ground up because that was the only way to do it after a disruption. Assume nothing from before still worked.
Nine days off the board. Not her choice. But she'd used every single one of them.
