Her desk, a scarred battlefield of oak, currently bore the weighty evidence of half a dozen open case files. Each one was a testament to someone's sudden, inexplicable absence: a teenager who vanished from a seemingly mundane suburban street, a middle-aged accountant who walked out for a pack of cigarettes and never returned to his wife, a young woman whose digital footprint abruptly ceased on an ordinary Tuesday morning. Their faces, reproduced poorly on grainy photographs, stared up at her, demanding answers she didn't yet possess.
"The Farm," she articulated, tasting the code name like cold ash. "We still have zero physical proof of location, only the coded references?"
"Confirmed, Director. It's the terminus. The destination for the long-haul transfers," Chen agreed. "Every recovered witness interview, every decrypted chat log, refers to the final destination by that single, simple moniker: The Farm."