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low-quality picture, he lowered it to a thirty-five-percent match, which flooded his inbox with thousands of notifications. It was slow going, but it was a start. Grimes sifted through doctors, construction workers, lawyers, fast food employees, anyone and everyone the software spit out at him, but so far he only had five matches worth investigating and another three thousand he still needed examine.
    A knock sounded at the door, and the chancellor’s chief of staff stepped inside. “You’re here late, Agent Grimes.”
    “Just trying to make as much headway as possible before the long grind starts,” Grimes replied, smiling. Despite the chancellor’s warm welcome, Grimes knew he and his colleagues’ presence didn’t agree with everyone in the administration.
    “Have you handled these types of cases before?” Alexander asked. “These ghosts?”
    “In my experience, there are no such things as ghosts. Just individuals better trained with better equipment. I’m sure there are a few people out there who think we have ghosts in the CIA.”
    “Don’t you?” Alexander rapped his knuckles on the door and gave him a wave. “Don’t stay too late. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
    Grimes gave a nod, still looking at his computer screen. “Will do.” He knew Alexander was right. He had to sleep at some point; it was something his superiors had to point out to him as well. Work was like a drug for him, worse than any cocaine, alcohol, or heroin addiction. The longer the wick burned, the stronger he felt. He’d always been like that, even when he was a boy. There was a satisfaction in the long workday that he couldn’t find anywhere else.
    The only side effect from his addiction that he had found so far was time. He never had enough of it, and he was always struggling to find a way to maximize what little he had left. Friends and family were frequently pushed aside, making room for advancing his career. Everything he planned, everything he did revolved around his job.
    Grimes rubbed his eyes and pushed himself out of his chair. He placed his hand on the laptop’s screen, and just before he was about to close it, a notification popped. He sat back down and opened the file.
    Like the other five matches he’d deemed worthy of investigating, this one seemed like it would fit the bill. High school diploma, low-profile factory job that required skilled use of hands, Chicago resident, and around the same age and size as the woman they were tracking. He jotted down the name next to the list of others. Sarah Hill.

 
    ***
    The satellite HQ had finally gone through its last run-through, and Mack gave the thumbs-up to resume operations. The slightly smaller, cramped space was still a little musty, but the fact that they had agents returning to what they did best helped soothe the aching sores in Mack’s mind. At least a little.
    The doubts and anger resurfaced when Mack returned to his office, where the mole still beckoned his attention. He slumped into his chair and searched through the reams of paper on his desk that had told him little more than that his field agents enjoyed spending well beyond their allotted budgets on missions.
    Mack’s eyes kept darting over to a particular box in the corner of the office that he’d been putting off going through. If he found something that hinted at the mole in that box, then he and every other member of the GSF was in for a very, very rude awakening.
    Finally, summoning the strength to shove the rest of the piles of paper aside, Mack dropped the corner box on the center of his desk and flung the lid to the floor. He pulled out the first document, which read “GSF Internal Financial Review Board.” Mack jotted down his notes, referencing dates, locations, dollar amounts, and account numbers.
    The GSF Internal Financial Review Board was the agency’s bank, and it comprised members of the sponsors of the agency that kept them funded and functional. If there were a member or