Chapter 183 The Weaver
Fennigan’s mind raced through the roster of the men assigned to the eastern ridge. It was a secondary post, usually reserved for younger warriors earning their stripes or those transitioning back to active duty after an injury. It was supposed to be a quiet sector, a low-risk perimeter.
He turned away from the screen, his gaze landing on Damon and Jax. The elders—Veda, Thorpe, and Horne—stood back, their role to provide counsel on the law, not to sift through the gritty logistics of pack security. That was a job for the bloodline.
"Jax, pull up the digital logs," Fennigan commanded, his voice cold and precise. "Dad, I want you to go to the physical archives. I want every patrol report for the East Ridge from the last six months. Cross-reference them with the timestamps on these encrypted files. If a supply transport moved into that bunker, I want to know exactly whose eyes were on that ridge at that hour."
Damon nodded, his face hardening into the mask of the former Alpha. "I'll see who signed off on the perimeter checks. If someone was 'missing' tracks or ignoring the scent of fresh concrete, I'll find the signature."
The "ugly" had truly arrived, and it felt like a cold blade between the ribs. It wasn't just an external threat anymore; it was the sickening possibility that someone who had shared their bread, laughed at their table, and watched the twins play on the porch might have looked the other way. Whether it was for a handful of High Council gold or a lingering, hidden loyalty to Vane, the betrayal tasted like ash.
"If there’s a traitor in my woods," Fennigan whispered, his voice vibrating with a lethal, Alpha frequency that made the air in the small study feel thin, "they won't live to see the next moon rise."
Jax’s fingers flew across the keyboard as the data began to sync. "Found something, Fenn. The logs for the midnight shifts during the third week of every month... they aren't just lax. They've been wiped and re-entered with generic 'all-clear' codes."
Fennigan leaned over his brother's shoulder, his eyes tracking the names. "Who was the Lead Scout on those rotations?"
Jax let out a frustrated huff, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as a wall of crimson text—ACCESS DENIED—blinked mockingly on the screen. He leaned back, the blue light of the monitor casting sharp, hollow shadows across his face.
"This isn't standard Council encryption, Fenn," Jax muttered, rubbing his eyes. "This is military-grade, multi-layered 'ghost' coding. It’s designed to self-destruct if I try to force the door. One wrong keystroke and the whole drive turns into a paperweight."
Fennigan paced the small confines of the study, his presence like a caged storm. He looked at the elders, then at his father, before turning his gaze back to the glowing screen. "We can’t afford to lose that data. If Vane was hiding a bunker three miles from my gatehouse, God only knows what else is buried in those folders. We need someone who can dance through those firewalls."
He looked at Jax, his voice low and urgent. "Do you know someone? Someone outside the Council’s reach?"
Jax stayed silent for a moment, his mind sifting through the underground contacts he’d made during his years as a rogue and a scout. A slow, hesitant nod followed.
"There is one person," Jax said, his voice dropping an octave. "They call him The Weaver. He’s a tech-genius who lives off the grid in the Neutral Territory. He’s a wolf, but he doesn't run with a pack. He’s a 'lone-operator' who specializes in digital warfare. He’s expensive, he’s paranoid as hell, and he doesn't give a damn about Alpha authority."
Jax looked his brother square in the eye. "But he’s the best. If the Council has a digital lock, he’s the master key. The problem is, he doesn't do house calls. We’d have to take the drives to him—or bring him here under heavy guard."
Damon frowned, his arms crossed over his chest. "Bringing a stranger into the heart of the Blackwood when we already suspect a traitor in our midst? That’s a dangerous game, son."
Fennigan looked at the screen, then toward the window where he could still hear the faint, happy shrieks of the twins on the porch. The "ugly" was pushing in, and he needed a weapon to fight back.
"Contact him, Jax," Fennigan ordered, his voice echoing with the finality of an Alpha's decree. "Tell him we have a job that will pay for his retirement. But tell him if he breathes a word of what he finds to anyone but me, there won't be enough of him left to bury."
Fennigan rumbled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction at the prospect of a lead. "Tell him we’re coming to him. I want as few people knowing about these files as possible. If there’s a leak in this house, I’m not handing them a map to our next move."
Jax leaned back, a grim smirk playing on his lips as he reached for a secure burner phone he kept in the desk drawer. "Trust me, Fenn, you don't have to worry about The Weaver whispering to anyone. The man is so paranoid he thinks his own shadow is a Council spy. He doesn't have friends, he doesn't have a pack, and he sure as hell doesn't have a big mouth. He lives in a basement surrounded by enough hardware to jump-start a satellite. He couldn't go to anyone else even if he wanted to—he’s convinced the rest of the world is out to get him."
"Trust me, he's our guy," Jax added, his thumb hovering over the dial. "He’ll take the gold, crack the drives, and then probably erase the memory of us ever being there just so he can sleep better at night."
Fennigan nodded. "Do it. Arrange a meet at the border of the Neutral Territory. We leave at dusk. I want to be back before the twins wake up tomorrow morning."
Damon stepped forward, his eyes clouded with concern. "You’re going yourself? Fennigan, you’re the Alpha. With a bunker discovered on your doorstep and a potential traitor in the ranks, leaving the territory is a massive risk."
"That’s exactly why I'm going," Fennigan countered, his voice like flint. "If these files contain names, I want to be the first one to see them. I’m not playing a game of 'telephone' with my pack’s safety." He looked at Jax. "We take a small, elite detail. No fanfares. Just a 'patrol' that happens to drift over the line."
Fennigan walked to the study door, pausing with his hand on the heavy brass handle. He could still hear the distant, muffled sound of the twins laughing on the porch. The sound was a stark reminder of the stakes.
"Jax, get the coordinates," Fennigan said over his shoulder. "I'm going to tell Leela. If I'm going into the Neutral Territory, she needs to know—and she's not going to like it."