Marlowe
The next entry was dated only days before Ridge Pass, the handwriting considerably more frantic than the earlier pages, ink pressed hard enough into the paper that it had nearly torn through in places.
*Payment confirmed. B.F. account, routed through the usual channel. Told them everything — route, timing, crew size. Told myself it's just business. Can't quite believe that anymore.*
"B.F.," King said slowly, his voice tight with dawning, terrible understanding. "Blackfang."
I felt the whole devastating shape of the truth finally, completely click into place — not some elaborate new conspiracy, not some hidden villain we'd never encountered, but confirmation, concrete and undeniable, of exactly what we'd always assumed underneath the surface: Vance's organization had paid Whitfi
