LUNAR DECEPTION

A JAMES FLYNN THRILLER

BOOK 6

J.D. KANE

R.J. PATTERSON

ALSO BY R.J. PATTERSON

Titus Black series

Behind Enemy Lines

Game of Shadows

Rogue Commander

Line of Fire

Blowback

Honorable Lies

Power Play

State of Conspiracy

The Patriot

The President's Man

The Haitian Assassin

Codename: Killshot

Chaos Theory

House of Cards

False Flag

A Deadly Game

Brady Hawk series

First Strike

Deep Cover

Point of Impact

Full Blast

Target Zero

Fury

State of Play

Seige

Seek and Destroy

Into the Shadows

Hard Target

No Way Out

Two Minutes to Midnight

Against All Odds

Any Means Necessary

Vengeance

Code Red

A Deadly Force

Divide and Conquer

Extreme Measures

Final Strike

Cal Murphy Thriller series

Dead Shot

Dead Line

Better off Dead

Dead in the Water

Dead Man's Curve

Dead and Gone

Dead Wrong

Dead Man's Land

Dead Drop

Dead to Rights

Dead End

James Flynn Thriller series

The Warren Omissions

Imminent Threat

The Cooper Affair

Seeds of War

Polar Vortex

Lunar Deception

To Diane, Uncle Tony, and Aunt Phyllis

1

CENTRAL FLORIDA

The water moccasin had made itself at home in the back corner of James Flynn’s pontoon boat, and it wasn’t planning to leave.

Flynn steadied his breathing as he watched the coiled snake, thick as a linebacker’s forearm, and dull and black as an undertaker’s belt.

Flynn’s grandpa back in Oklahoma would have called it a cottonmouth. Flynn thought of the old man, gone twelve years now. He’d taught Flynn everything he knew about the outdoors, often through thrilling tales from his own experiences.

“Don’t mess around with those cottonmouths,” Grandpa’s voice echoed in his mind.

Flynn thought about those words now as he snapped back to the present and stared at the black snake occupying the back corner of his 23-foot pontoon boat like it owned the place. Mouth closed, triangular head and black-dot eyes locked on Flynn. Grandpa told stories about water moccasins literally chasing humans. Flynn wasn’t sure if their menacing behavior reached that extreme, but he knew the snake was deadly and wouldn’t hesitate to strike if threatened. As far as aggressive snakes were concerned, the water moccasin was king.

His first idea was to let the thing sit there. If he stayed calm and didn’t provoke it, he expected the snake would eventually be on its way. Flynn shifted his attention to the boat’s bow and knew his plan wasn’t feasible.

His passengers for the day were two pairs of snowbirds: Tom and Carol from Muncie, Indiana, and Bob and Nancy from Erie, Pennsylvania, all well into their seventies. Flynn piloted the boat down the Withlacoochee River. Billing his expedition as Captain Jim’s Jungle Cruise, he’d led tourists up and down the river for the better part of nine months. It was a far cry from his previous career as an investigative journalist and even further from his days with the CIA. All of that was behind him. Flynn was retired, and he told himself he didn’t miss his old life.

His last mission had led him to step over a line he never expected to cross. He was a civilian and a journalist, but he still behaved like a government agent with a license to commit violence. The imagery of that fateful day haunted him. Just over a year ago in Australia—Flynn knew he’d acted outside the lines. He’d not thought of that day for some time, but seeing the dangerous snake on his boat brought back a familiar sensation and, along with it, memories of close calls, blood rushing in his ears, and the razor-sharp edge of life-or-death moments in lands far from this peaceful river in Florida.

The temperature was pushing the high 90s with enough humidity to peel stamps off envelopes. It was the kind of Florida day that kept most people inside, poolside, or beachside. Normally, Flynn’s boat would be packed with ten or twelve paying customers, but today, only four had shown up.

The heat wasn’t the only thing keeping people home. A string of terror attacks across the country had left Americans jittery and wary of crowds and public spaces. Even a sleepy river cruise wasn’t immune to the growing unease. And the passengers, oblivious to the venomous snake just feet away, weren’t shy about sharing their opinions on the recent attacks.

“I’ll tell you what,” Bob said, loud enough to carry over the hum of the motor. “They need to show those bastards who’s boss. Enough is enough.”

“You’re damn right,” Tom added, leaning forward. “Should’ve wiped them out on day one. None of this waiting around, second-guessing, like they did to us in Vietnam.”

Carol snapped pictures of the riverbank, unconcerned. “They’re not keeping me inside. I’m not letting those monsters ruin my vacation.”

Flynn tightened his grip on the wheel, keeping his face neutral. Their confidence was almost admirable. They had no idea how much they didn’t know—about the attacks or the snake lurking nearby.

He glanced back. The snake was still there, coiled and motionless, its beady eyes glinting in the sun. They couldn’t see the danger—and if Flynn did his job right, they never would.

That was the deal. Always had been.

He turned back to the river, jaw tightening. The bravado, the ignorance, the blind certainty—it wasn’t their fault. They saw the world in black and white because they could. Flynn knew better. The threats you saw coming often blinded you to the ones that crept in unseen.

His gaze bounced back to the snake, his chest tightening. Just one look from the Boomers up front would send them into hysteria, and the moccasin would almost certainly freak the hell out, turning this quiet day into chaos.

He could calmly explain to his guests that a snake was onboard and ask them to stay cool. But no—these were northerners. Nobody north of Atlanta could keep their shit wired tight in the face of Florida wildlife. The snake would have to remain his secret.

“Gator!” shouted Bob.

He half stood from his padded seat, pointing toward the riverbank where a large alligator rested in a sunbeam slicing through the cypress foliage.

Flynn shifted his focus from the snake to the alligator, his body jolting to attention before his mind caught up—an instinctive reflex honed to react to potential danger.

“Good eye, Bob,” he said. “But better stay seated. I’d hate to see you fall overboard, although I can’t say the alligator would be as disappointed.”

The tourists laughed, an easy crowd. Flynn peeked back at the water moccasin, which remained still.

So far, so good.

Bob sat back down and gazed ahead with the others. Flynn, putting on the whole “Captain Jim” thing, narrated a well-rehearsed presentation about the plants and animals visitors could expect to see along the Withlacoochee and provided a brief history lesson of the area, intentionally avoiding the topic of the region’s many snakes. He explained that the Withlacoochee, along with the St. Johns, were the only two rivers in Florida that flowed north. His customers nodded with impressed expressions.

“What are those little things sticking out of the water?” Carol asked. “They look like stumps.”

“Cypress knees,” Flynn said. “Those act as would-be roots or the cypress trees that line the river. They supply air to the trees.”

More nods.

Flynn turned again to check on the snake.

It was gone.

He felt a wave of relief for half a second before his stomach tightened, and the unease gripped him. If it had slithered back into the water, fine—but…

He scanned the deck, wanting to believe the moccasin had dipped back into the river, but the uncertainty gnawed at him. Having the snake just a few feet from him and his passengers was terrible enough. Not knowing where it had gone was worse.

He’d spent plenty of time motoring up and down this river over the past few months, but today’s four-foot stowaway was the first thing that raised his pulse. The rush was familiar, dragging his mind back to times and places he’d sworn to leave behind. The Florida wilderness wasn’t the adventure he used to know—it was quiet, predictable, and didn’t rack up a body count.

A snake, even one as deadly as a cottonmouth, wasn’t complicated. Its bite could kill, but it didn’t lie about what it was. Government conspirators, foreign operatives, untrustworthy sources, greedy corporate fat cats—those were enemies who didn’t show their fangs. At least the cottonmouth played fair.

He surveyed the boat again, this time with meticulous purpose, lingering on the shadows under the seats and behind the cooler where he kept water bottles. The snake could be anywhere, and the thought set him on edge.

The last thing Flynn wanted was to spook his passengers. He looked back at the river, masking the tension in his gut with a steady smile. With an unwavering tone, he slipped back into his tour guide persona and kept the folksy narration going, determined to give his customers exactly what they’d paid for.

“Notice some of these larger trees up ahead leaning into the water,” he said, gesturing at the towering cypress. “That’s from years of storms and erosion. But they hold strong. Their roots go deep.”

The group murmured, captivated by Florida’s serene beauty. Flynn kept his voice on autopilot, though his thoughts were far from the script. He eased the throttle back, slowing the boat.

“Everything alright, Captain Jim?” Nancy asked, her sunglasses resting on her forehead.

Flynn grinned. “Just making sure we don’t miss anything worth seeing.”

Nancy nodded and leaned back, satisfied.

Flynn took a deep breath to calm himself and used the lull to survey the deck once more.

That’s when he saw it.

The moccasin had slithered unseen, forward toward the passengers and was stretched under the long bench seat on the port side, its head tilted slightly upward, tongue flicking in and out.

Carol’s oversized tote bag, resting on the floor under the bench, had caught the snake’s attention. Its head turned toward the bag, and the moccasin slinked toward it.

Flynn cursed under his breath. The bag was large enough to conceal all sorts of scents—maybe food, sunscreen, or something else the snake had locked onto.

Flynn took a deep breath and calculated his options. He couldn’t let the snake crawl into the bag. He reached for the boat hook that he stored along the starboard railing. Holding the end of the long aluminum pole, he inched the curved hook toward the snake. His customers remained engrossed in the scenery and their idle conversation. Carol snapped pictures of the cypress trees with an outdated digital camera, oblivious to the real wildlife drama unfolding at her feet.

Flynn held the boat hook with a firm grip. The water moccasin, as deadly as it was unpredictable, remained under the seat just inches from the bag. Flynn needed to act swiftly but carefully. If the snake felt cornered or provoked, it wouldn’t hesitate to strike, and the whole situation could go sideways in an instant.

Cottonmouths are no joke. He could hear Grandpa’s steady voice, soft and measured, using the tone that ensured young James would listen and understand. The old man had always described them as the most temperamental snakes in the wild, deadly venomous and mean as hell, a nasty combination. Flynn couldn’t let it crawl into the woman’s bag.

He eased the hook forward and nudged the snake’s body. The creature was heavier than he’d expected, and the gentle prodding did nothing to move it. He poked harder, and the moccasin snapped into an aggressive coil, abandoning the tote bag to face Flynn. It craned its head upward and unhinged its massive mouth, the bright white signature gape an unsettling hallmark of the cottonmouth’s fearsome reputation.

Flynn’s adrenaline spiked. The damn thing was going to strike.

“Don’t you even think about it,” Flynn said, louder than he intended.

Carol glanced back. “Did you say something, Captain?”

Flynn didn’t hesitate: “Don’t think about reaching up and grabbing some of that Spanish moss, Carol. It’s pretty to look at, and Native American tribes called it ‘tree hair,’ but trust me—it’s full of bugs.”

Carol pitched her neck upward toward the Live Oak limbs draped with silver-gray strands of Spanish Moss.

“She hates bugs,” said her husband, eliciting a disgusted look from Carol and a chuckle from the other couple.

Flynn forced a smile that masked the tension in his clenched jaw. He remained still. He was grateful for the diversion, but the black snake was still there, mouth open, eyes on him. He lowered the boat hook to the deck. That idea was dead in the water.

Time for Plan B.

It wasn’t much, but he hadn’t had many options to begin with.

Flynn slid back to the captain’s chair, easing the throttle forward. The motor rumbled beneath him, the vibration rolling through the deck like distant thunder. He hoped the sudden shift would rattle the snake into retreat.

It didn’t.

The moccasin uncoiled a fraction, just enough to drape its thick body lazily closer to the passengers’ seats, as if it had decided to join them for the tour.

Flynn clenched his jaw so tight he felt a muscle jump near his ear. He glanced at the boat hook he’d discarded. Worthless. His next move was the gun under the console—a last resort he wasn’t eager to use, unless he wanted to add snake blood to the list of sights his snowbird guests had enjoyed today.

Think.

His eyes flicked to his wrist, more out of habit than hope. The Omega Seamaster’s polished crystal caught a shard of brutal Florida sunlight, splashing a flicker of light onto the throttle lever.

He squinted at it.

No, too stupid.

Then again … maybe just stupid enough.

It’s a long shot, Flynn thought, raising his wrist slightly. But hell, what isn’t?

It would be his final gambit before he’d be forced to resort to grabbing his trusty Sig Sauer 9mm from under the console and blasting the damn snake to bits. That maneuver would not be good for referrals from the traumatized snowbirds, not to mention the integrity of his boat’s deck.

He twisted his wrist, angling the watch until the reflection flared, and aimed it at the snake’s head.

The moccasin flinched.

Good.

Flynn’s pulse picked up. He stabilized his left forearm with his right hand and wiggled his wrist rapidly to make the light dance across the snake’s eyes, doing his best to annoy the creature. The moccasin flinched, and Flynn adjusted the reflection to keep it flickering on the snake’s face.

The snake froze, distracted by the irritating light. Flynn didn’t let up. He switched tactics, bouncing the light first, then holding it steady, letting it bore into the snake’s unblinking eyes.

“Come on,” Flynn muttered. “Get out of here.”

The snake shifted, slow and wary, its head reacting to the light with cold, predatory focus.

The deck tilted slightly as Carol shifted in her seat to adjust her tote bag, which had captured the snake’s attention only minutes earlier.

Flynn’s breath caught in his throat.

The movement made the glare fall away from the snake’s head, leaving its deadly gaze bare and fixed once again on Carol’s bag.

The moccasin’s head snapped toward the movement near its coils—Carol’s hand resting inches from danger.

Flynn felt sweat trickle down his temple. He jerked his wrist to redirect the sunlight. To control the reflection at this point, Flynn had to twist his wrist and hold it steady from an angle that was not only nearly impossible but awkward and painful at the same time.

The light pierced the intruding snake’s eyes again. The creature froze, again mesmerized by the glare.

Flynn didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. His arm burned from holding the awkward position. His fingers ached to adjust, but he kept the light steady, his whole body wired tight.

Come on, come on. Take the hint.

The snake’s body rippled, its scales catching the glare like a warning flare. Slowly, it began to slither toward the boat’s edge, irritated by the dancing light.

Flynn allowed himself to take a breath.

Almost there.

The moccasin stretched its body over the deck’s lip, paused, then slid beneath the rail with a wet, final plop into the river below.

Gone.

Flynn dropped his arm, his shoulder screaming in protest. He wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand.

“Everything okay?” Carol asked, reaching for a snack from the bag, never realizing the danger that was mere inches from her a moment ago.

Flynn wiped his palm on his shirt and forced a grin. “Better than okay,” he said, his voice thin but steady. “That’s one heck of a beautiful bag you have there.”

Carol beamed, totally oblivious.

When they reached the dock, Flynn helped his passengers off the boat. Bob slipped him a twenty-dollar bill as a tip.

“Great trip, Captain Jim. It was great to see all of the natural wildlife,” he said. “I have to say that I’m surprised we didn’t see any snakes, though.”

Flynn gripped the man’s hand and slapped him on the shoulder. “Funny thing about snakes, Bob,” he said. “You might not see them, but they’re always there.”

2

ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND

Admiral Paul Barrow stood at the center of the dim command room, hands behind his back, watching heat signatures flicker across the monitor.

The compound was rural, poorly defended, exactly what his team preferred. Five buildings housing twenty people. They were armed but not prepared. They had no idea they were already marked for extinction.

“Status?” he said.

“Alpha and Bravo in position. Weapons hot. Ready on your go.”

Barrow tapped a key on the console. “Green light.”

He didn’t need to watch the rest. It would play out like the others. One clean strike. One more cancer cut out. One more step toward his ultimate goal.

Behind him, a secondary screen displayed a recorded press conference. Senator Quentin Danbury, Barrow’s steadfast political ally, stood before a row of flags, giving interviews like it was a campaign year.

Barrow already knew the script. He and Danbury had shaped it in private, without aides or recordings, without anything that could be traced. Their meetings were always quiet and always off the books. Each man understood the value of discretion.

Now, onscreen, Danbury stood before the press members in Washington, delivering the message with calm authority.

Danbury, the handsome and personable senator from Virginia, wore a navy sport coat and no tie, his posture relaxed and confident. The image struck the right balance between statesman and working man. Nothing about him felt staged. He didn’t need an artificial persona. The calm conviction in his voice came naturally, shaped by decades of public service and a lifetime spent understanding people.

“ASP is a necessary step,” Barrow had told Danbury two weeks earlier. “This country is scared, and scared people don’t wait for committee reports.”

The senator had agreed with him. In principle, at least. ASP (Advanced Strike Protocol) was Barrow’s brainchild, an elite military unit created to detect and destroy terrorist activity in the United States. It had thus far been successful but was under scrutiny due to its secretive status among the military.

Danbury paused for effect during his speech. His expression was composed, but Barrow caught the subtle tightening around the eyes. That was Danbury’s tell—when the stakes were higher than they appeared.

Barrow leaned back and sipped his coffee.

Danbury had the voice people trusted. He was a veteran politician, a Virginian, and a steady presence in every crisis of the last two decades. The public believed he was a moderate. They had no idea how closely he worked with Barrow—or how much he already owed him.

Barrow respected Danbury’s discipline. He was a practiced operator who understood timing, loyalty, and momentum. That made him useful. For now.

Barrow set the coffee cup aside and folded his hands.

Danbury wanted the White House. He would never say it out loud, but Barrow could see the calculation behind every move. The Senator was smart enough to know he couldn’t get there alone. That was why he kept their arrangement quiet, and why he stuck to the talking points Barrow provided. For now, at least.

Barrow watched the feed until the screen cut to commercial.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.

Danbury thought he was ascending under his own power.

Barrow intended to let him believe that—for as long as it served them both.

Arkansas, 0100 hours

Sixty miles outside Little Rock

Command, Viper. Confirming green light.”

Barrow’s voice crackled in his headset. “You’re clear, Viper. Engage with extreme prejudice.”

“Copy that, Command.”

Night vision painted the compound green—two dozen heat signatures, no formal perimeter, one armed sentry half-asleep near the main house. Viper had seen it before: backwoods radicals with too many guns and not enough training.

He was the strike leader for ASP—Advanced Strike Protocol. His team was built for one thing: fast, lethal execution of domestic terrorists operating on U.S. soil. Terrorist cells had been popping across the nation in recent months, putting America on constant red alert and derailing the lives of law-abiding citizens. This was ASP’s fifth raid; the previous four had been overwhelming successes.

Viper flashed the signal, his gloved hand slicing through the moonlight. He advanced toward the wall while his soldiers clad in battle armor followed, single file, rifles raised, boots crunching on the forest floor.

Through his night-vision goggles, Viper surveyed the outer perimeter of the compound. It was dark and quiet, the people inside unaware of the impending hell that crept toward them from the shadows.

Viper crouched outside the entrance, flanked on each side by his men. Another hand signal brought a soldier forward to attach a breaching charge to the gate. Viper held up three fingers, then two, then one. A second later, the door exploded inward. Flashbangs followed, illuminating the open courtyard with bursts of blinding white light.

Viper shouted, “Go! Go!” and his team slithered through the blown gate with organic precision. The area was a maze of barrels, vehicles, and debris, casting jagged shadows under the moonlight.

A soldier shouted. “Contacts left! Two!”

Gunfire erupted, precise and deadly. A pair of scruffy, wide-eyed men scrambled for weapons, but the ASP soldiers gunned them down.

At the other end of the courtyard, Viper swung his rifle, tracking a figure darting behind a rusted shell of an old Ford pickup. The man fired three shots wildly from a handgun, none of which had a chance to find their mark. Viper responded and dropped the man with a burst from his M4 Carbine.

A momentary silence took over as the ASP squad cleared the perimeter and turned focus toward the primary building, a squat concrete structure devoid of windows and accessible only by a single door at the front.

The element of surprise was gone. Anyone inside the building knew they were coming. The ones inside would be armed and more prepared than the men caught off guard in the courtyard.

Viper took a moment.

He signaled to Bravo team to slide around to the north side of the building and motioned Alpha to stack on the front door with him. Resistance from inside would be focused on the door as it was the clear way into the building. He would first breach the north wall to create confusion inside, then blow the front door and attack simultaneously from different angles.

Once he heard the explosion from Bravo, Viper gave the signal to breach the door.

Inside, the air was heavy with the stench of diesel and sweat. The hallway stretched ahead, lit by a single bulb swaying on a frayed wire. Armed men crouched behind makeshift cover. Distracted by Bravo’s explosion, the men were quickly eliminated by Alpha team with Viper at the head of the serpentine tail of soldiers that wound behind him into the building.

“Entryway clear,” he said into his comm. “Bravo, SIT-REP.”

Bravo’s squad leader replied. “Two hostiles down. Room is clear.”

“Stay frosty,” Viper said. “Watch your corners. No surprises.”

Alpha advanced through the building in a tight line, rifles sweeping doorways as they cleared room after room. An unarmed man sprang from a side room. He held his hands high above his head. Viper popped two 5.56mm rounds into his chest.

They reached an open door. The room was dark.

“Frag it,” he said.

The grenade sailed through the doorway. The blast rocked the hallway, the shockwave rattling the loose bulb. Alpha coiled in, illuminating the room with flashlights attached to their gun rails. Bloody bodies lay about—men and women. One woman huddled in the corner, crying. A soldier fired two shots: one into her chest, another to the center of her forehead.

They exited the room and met up with Bravo. The building was expansive inside, and they wound their way through corridors until they reached a door that led to the cellar.

“Door’s barricaded,” a soldier said.

“Blow it,” Viper said.

The detonation blasted the door from its hinges, filling the air with splinters. Someone tossed a flashbang down the stairs.

Shots rang out from down below, literal shots in the dark, but the ASP soldiers were faster and more precise. They moved down the steps in a blur, neutralizing all remaining targets.

“Clear,” Viper said. He keyed his mic. “Command, building secure. No friendly casualties.”

Annapolis

Barrow leaned away from the screen. The feed still showed infrared flickers of Viper’s team moving methodically through the compound. Fire already spread from the north wall.

An aide approached with a tablet. “We’ve prepared the initial press brief and sent the talking points to Danbury’s office,” he said. “They’ll push it before morning.”

Barrow nodded and glanced at the screen. A draft headline glowed at the top of the document:

Suspected Domestic Terror Cell Neutralized in Overnight Operation

Below it, the bullet points were already framed:

No ASP casualties: Weapons and extremist materials recovered

Operation led by Admiral Paul Barrow under ASP directive

“Push it to networks by four a.m.,” Barrow said. “Make sure Danbury gets the lead slot on morning cable.”

“Yes, sir.”

Barrow turned off the monitors. The room went dark, save for the blinking cursor on his command terminal.

Another raid. Another win.

He made a small note on a notepad beside him. No names. Just a fifth hashmark.

3

CENTRAL FLORIDA

Flynn sat under the overhang outside his RV, elbows resting on the little table he used for breakfast, paperwork, and—occasionally—chess against a particularly sly AI opponent. His coffee had gone cold fifteen minutes ago, but he hadn’t bothered to get up for more.

The television inside played at low volume. A particularly well-styled talking head was raging.

Flynn hated what passed for broadcast journalism these days. He hated the theater. The smug certainty. The way every sentence was often delivered like a sermon to people who’d already stopped listening.

“This is leadership,” the anchor said, gesturing toward a split-screen image of Admiral Paul Barrow and Senator Quentin Danbury. “Five operations. Five clear victories for the American people. Not a single ASP casualty. We are witnessing how swift action solves problems. “

Flynn muted it with the remote.

The screen froze on Barrow’s face. Clean-cut. Ramrod posture. The kind of man who probably saluted his own reflection out of habit.

Flynn looked back down at the paper in his lap. The Tampa Bay Times, crinkled and sun-faded from where he’d left it earlier, had reprinted a syndicated column from The New York Times under the headline:

CRITICS QUESTION ASP TACTICS AFTER ARKANSAS RAID

He reread the pull quote from a California senator.

“We cannot allow fear to erode our constitutional safeguards,” she’d said. “We need transparency and accountability, or we risk losing far more than we gain.”

Flynn ran his thumb along the edge of the page. He wasn’t exactly shocked. Raids, elite units, secret orders—he’d worked in that world. Sometimes deep inside it. And he knew better than most that the worst things weren’t the things people lied about. They were the things no one thought to ask.

Barrow’s name rang a faint bell. Not a major player among the intelligence crowd, but someone who was on the fringe of a few projects. Flynn knew Barrow was respected, but didn’t know much about the man himself.

Danbury was a Southern gentleman whose voice dripped maple syrup. Flynn and Leslie Vanderwaal had met with Danbury a year ago as part of a story about funding for an experimental military project. Flynn thought he was a decent man, for a politician. Known as a moderate, it was odd to see Danbury attaching his wagon to Barrow’s star. The move seemed overly bold, but Danbury was on a short list to be the party’s nomination for the presidency, and sometimes bold moves paid off big.

Flynn tossed the paper aside and grabbed his phone. It took two web searches to confirm the basic facts: Barrow was the architect of the Advanced Strike Protocol, or ASP, a new domestic security program launched under emergency authorization following the wave of recent attacks. The language was all boilerplate—surgical precision, proactive defense, unconventional threats—but the scope of the operations wasn’t.

Five cities. Five raids. Zero oversight. How many deaths?

The public didn’t seem to care. Not yet.

Flynn scrolled through a few more articles, then dropped the phone onto the table and leaned back in the chair.

He was retired. That was the whole point. He didn’t run toward stories anymore. He ran river tours. He played the part of Captain Jim. He pointed out herons and alligators and smiled at snowbirds who called him “sir” and tipped in cash.

This wasn’t his fight. Not anymore.

Still…

Flynn stood and walked inside for another cup of coffee. He told himself he’d let it go after that. He just needed to see a few more headlines. Just to get a feel for what was being said. Maybe dig a little deeper on Barrow, just enough to scratch the itch. Maybe he’d make a few phone calls to make sure the right people were aware of what was going on.

He poured the coffee. Then he sat back down, opened his laptop, and started searching. He’d just be a few minutes.

Time passed and a man’s voice broke the silence of his morning routine.

“James Flynn?”

Flynn checked the time. He’d been researching Barrow for three hours. He closed the laptop and rubbed his eyes before turning toward his visitor.

“Who’s asking?” He was used to being direct with people and sometimes struggled to remember that he was running a business that required a more gracious tone with the tourists.

The man was a few years older than Flynn, fifties, lanky, cautious, and harmless at first glance.

Flynn continued, “If it’s about a river cruise, I’m afraid you’re a bit late. I’ve got openings tomorrow morning, though, if you’re interested.”

The man shook his head. “I’ve been looking for you.” He stopped a few paces away, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His eyes shifted to the newspaper. “Wild stuff, huh? This ASP? Seems like they cleaned house. You know, you weren’t easy to find.”

Flynn stood and approached the man. “It’s always messier than you think,” he said. “And, it’s not like I’m hiding.”

The man smiled and extended a hand. “Sam Harlan. Do you have a moment?”

Flynn frowned. This wasn’t about booking a river cruise, so it was shaping up to be a waste of time. “Depends on what you’re selling, Mr. Harlan. What do you want?”

Sam reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, holding it in front of him. “I want to show you something.”

Flynn unfolded it. It was a printed copy of an old photograph; the color washed out with a slight gray-green tint like it had been taken years ago under fluorescent lights. The image showed two men, one wearing a spacesuit with the shield raised on his helmet. Any American born before 1990 would instantly recognize the first man as astronaut Neil Armstrong.

“Who’s the other guy?” Flynn asked.

“My grandfather,” Sam said.

Flynn handed the paper back to Sam. “Nice keepsake. What does this have to do with me?”

Sam said, “You hardly looked at it. That’s a soundstage.”

“Not surprising,” Flynn said. “Armstrong did a lot of publicity shots. All of those guys did back then. From Mercury to Gemini to Apollo. I have a signed photo of Gordon Cooper. Looks very similar to this one, minus your grandfather, of course.”

“I very much doubt that,” Sam said. “If you’d bothered to look closely, you would see this set appears to mimic the moon’s surface.”

“First man on the moon takes a PR photo on a set designed to look like the moon? What am I missing, Sam?”

“Entirely,” Sam said. “This photo was taken on July 1, 1969, three weeks before Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin stepped onto the lunar surface. My grandfather built that set. He said it was for rehearsals.”

Flynn waited for more explanation. But he knew what was coming. He’d made himself a bit of a celebrity by chasing down a series of conspiracy theories, writing about them in magazines, and authoring a couple of books, which landed him a handful of interviews on cable news networks. Along with his fame came the occasional run-in with an exuberant fan wanting to share evidence of UFOs or grainy, out-of-focus pictures of Bigfoot.

Sam continued: “My grandfather worked as a contractor for NASA in the sixties. A man he used to work with claims they filmed the moon landing on this exact soundstage somewhere in the desert.”

Sam waited for Flynn to react, but Flynn turned back to his bucket. He wasn’t about to take the bait.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Sam asked.

He did. “You’ve got the wrong guy,” Flynn said. “I’m retired. I don’t chase conspiracy theories any more. You got a moon landing hoax story? You need to talk to Leslie Vanderwahl. This is exactly her kind of thing.”

“I thought of her first.” Sam looked away from Flynn as though embarrassed to admit it. “I already spoke to her. After asking around, she was clearly the best option.”

The words hit harder than expected. Leslie, talented as she was, was still a relative newcomer to the business. Her fiery ambition and tenacity nearly derailed one of Flynn’s assignments when the pair worked for The National magazine. It also almost got them both killed. She certainly annoyed him, but she somehow left a favorable impression—one that he couldn’t quite shake, no matter how much she got under his skin. He referred her in good faith; Flynn believed in Leslie Vanderwahl. He just never expected to finish in second place behind her.

He forced a neutral expression. “Well, good for Leslie. If you already have her, why are you here talking to me?”

Sam looked off, down the river. “I haven’t heard from Leslie in days. She agreed to look into the story. I showed her everything—my grandfather’s notes, some names, leads to follow up on. She said she’d be in touch, but now she’s gone dark.”

“Leslie’s a pro,” Flynn said. “She can handle herself.”

“Then why can’t I reach her? I mean it—nothing. No emails, no calls, not even a text. You think that’s normal for her?”

Flynn thought that sounded exactly like Leslie, but still, something felt off, and he wanted to ignore it. He hitched a thumb toward his boat behind him. “I’m trying to run a business here. I can’t just run off. Call the cops if you’re worried. Or hire a private investigator.”

“I can’t go to the police,” Sam said, his voice tense. “If this gets out to too many people, the whole thing gets buried. No one will learn the truth. Leslie’s in trouble; I can feel it. I need someone I can trust to find her. Someone who knows her and can handle this with discretion.”

“That’s not me,” Flynn said. “Not anymore.”

Sam glanced at the ground and then back at Flynn. “Just find her for me,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll pay you for your time.”

Flynn picked up a wet rag he used to wipe down his boat’s hardware, wringing it out as he considered the request. He rolled his shoulders, stalling for time. His instincts screamed at him to say no. He’d left that life behind. At least he kept telling himself so.

“Do you have the original photograph? Maybe the negative?” he said after a moment. “I want to see it to make sure you’re not handing me a Photoshopped image.”

Sam nodded. “Yes. I don’t like to carry the original with me. I can show it to you if you’d like to come see it.”

Flynn thought for a minute. “I’ll make a call,” he said finally. “But that’s it. I’m not chasing Leslie Vanderwahl all over the world for a moon-landing hoax theory that won’t pan out. Do you realize how many people have tried to debunk the moon landing?”

Sam, undeterred by the warning, grabbed Flynn’s hand with both of his. “I believe there’s plenty more to this story than you’re willing to realize, Mr. Flynn. Someone just needs to look in the right places.”

The man lingered as if searching for something more to say without finding the words. He handed Flynn a card with his contact information, then turned and walked away.

Flynn watched him leave. He stepped onto the boat and tossed the rag into a bucket of soapy water. Something was off, and it wasn’t Sam Harlan or his wild moon landing story. Flynn had heard dozens of whacked-out theories about Apollo 11, and the topic held no interest for him anymore

But this was about Leslie— and his nagging feeling that this had the potential to get messy.

4

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Cameras flashed in rapid succession, their strobes bouncing off the marble walls of the Senate Press Room. Senator Quentin Danbury stood tall at the podium, his silver hair catching the light as he met the press with an air of steady confidence. The media circus was nothing new—he thrived in it, commanding the room with the practiced ease of a man who felt most comfortable on a stage.

Behind him, a row of brass-decorated military officers and suited staffers created a wall of authority, their faces set in practiced expressions of grave determination.

“The Arkansas raid represents more than just a victory,” Danbury said. “It marks a turning point in our fight against domestic terrorism. Thanks to Admiral Barrow and his Advanced Strike Protocol units, a major threat to American lives was eliminated before it could strike.”

He let the statement linger before continuing. “Over the past two weeks, four additional raids have been executed in different parts of the country. Each one was swift. Each one was precise. And most importantly, each one was successful. The message is clear: those who seek to harm innocent Americans will not find refuge within our borders.”

The press murmured, pens scratching, keys clacking. Danbury let it hang a beat, then leaned in, ready to drive it home.

“For too long, our hands have been tied,” he said. “Too much bureaucracy, too much hesitation. But now we have a force that can act decisively, without the endless red tape that has slowed us down in the past. ASP is a game-changer, and Admiral Barrow is proving that when you take the fight directly to the enemy, America wins.”

A flurry of hands shot upward. Danbury nodded toward a reporter near the front. “Senator, some critics argue that these operations are happening too fast, with too little oversight. How do you respond to concerns about transparency?”

Danbury flashed the smile that earned him the nickname “Uncle Quentin” from his constituents in Virginia. His voice turned smooth: “Transparency is important, but security is paramount. If we spend months debating legal frameworks, these terrorists up and move camp. They get established somewhere else and Americans die. I refuse to let that happen.”

The reporter attempted to follow up, but Danbury was not finished. “Let me ask you this,” the senator clipped. “Would you rather debate rules and regulations while groups of known terrorists continue plotting, or would you rather stop them before they strike? The American people deserve safety, and thanks to Admiral Barrow and ASP, that’s exactly what they’re getting.”

More flashes. More hands.

Danbury knew how this would play. The public wanted strength. They wanted victories. And right now, he was the man delivering both. The conviction in his tone left no room for doubt.

He pointed to another reporter, a young woman in the middle of the crowd of journalists.

She said, “Senator, sources say the compound was completely destroyed. How can we verify⁠—“

“The evidence was clear and compelling.” Danbury cut her off, putting some edge to his tone. “Admiral Barrow’s team acted on solid intelligence. These weren’t misguided citizens; in some cases, foreign nationals came here to harm Americans. They were trained killers planning mass casualties.”

“What about casualties?” A gravelly voice cut through the clamor. The question came from Ted Morton of The Washington Post, a veteran reporter known for his persistence. “How many ASP personnel were injured or killed during these operations? And what’s the total number of suspects eliminated?”

Danbury’s smile tightened. He shifted his weight, adjusting his stance at the podium.

“I’m pleased to report zero casualties among our ASP teams. Their superior training and tactical advantage ensured a clean operation with minimal risk to our personnel.”

Morton pressed on. “And the suspects?”

“Fifty-six hostiles were neutralized across all five locations.” Danbury’s tone hardened. “Each one a confirmed threat, each one connected to terrorist networks actively planning attacks on American soil.”

Morton followed up. “Were any taken alive for questioning?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Danbury’s face remained composed, but something flickered behind his eyes.

He narrowed his eyes toward Morton. “These were dangerous terrorists, Ted. When confronted by our forces, they chose violence. ASP teams responded accordingly.” Danbury adjusted himself to a more neutral demeanor. “I should note that documents recovered from these locations have already provided intelligence leading to other cells. The swift and decisive nature of these operations likely saved hundreds, if not thousands, of innocent lives.”

5

CENTRAL FLORIDA

Flynn dialed Leslie’s number and hung up once the call went to voicemail. Leslie would see his name on the call log and call him back. Or not.

What could he say to voicemail that wouldn’t make him look like a fool? Hey, Vanderwahl, I talked to a complete stranger today who said you’re missing because you won’t return his calls?

She’d accuse him of worrying about her, which he’d have to deny. Then she’d say how much he craved to be the brave, white knight saving the damsel in distress before reminding him that she was no such damn damsel. She’d close the call by cussing him out and politely saying, Nice talking with you, Flynn.

He tapped sixteenth notes with the edge of his cell phone on the arm of his patio chair made of recycled lumber. He’d bought a complete set—two chairs and a table, all painted Oklahoma Crimson and Cream—when he left St. Pete, moved a few miles north and inland, and set up his RV along the river bank.

He wished he’d left a message, impending ridicule from Leslie notwithstanding.

Flynn pulled up his laptop and typed “Sam Harlan Florida” into the search bar. Dozens of hits popped up—library fundraisers, local town hall attendance, and a fishing column he contributed to in the Orlando Sentinel. Nothing suspicious, but Flynn knew better than to trust the surface.

A deeper dive into public records brought up an address in Maitland, a small city outside Orlando. Harlan’s history wasn’t flashy. Graduated from the University of Florida in the late eighties. Worked as a freelance consultant for a tech firm that went under during the dot-com bust. Most recently, he’d been listed as a contractor for a nonprofit historical preservation society, of all things.

Harlan’s online profile was unremarkable. No criminal record, no financial troubles, no lawsuits or scandals—not even a speeding ticket. If Flynn had been hoping to find a hint of malice or deceit, he was out of luck. The guy wasn’t hiding anything. That only made Leslie’s silence harder to figure out. If Harlan wasn’t the problem, then what the hell was?

Flynn’s Ford F-150 rolled through the quiet streets of Maitland. The truck had seen better days, but the engine ran strong, and Flynn never saw any reason to get rid of it. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across manicured lawns and cookie-cutter homes. Harlan’s house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac—a single-story stucco ranch with fresh paint and trimmed hedges.

Flynn parked across the street and studied the property. A silver Prius sat in the driveway. Solar panels lined the south-facing roof. A “Save the Manatees” sticker decorated the mailbox. Everything about the place screamed retired engineer with a conscience.

The front door opened before Flynn reached the steps. Harlan stood in the doorway, backlit by the interior lights.

“I hoped you’d come by.” Harlan’s shoulders slumped with visible relief. “Leslie still hasn’t called?”

“That’s why I’m here.” Flynn followed him inside. Family photos lined the walls—kids’ graduations, grandchildren’s birthdays, decades of memories captured in frames.

The living room looked like a research lab had exploded. Papers covered every surface. Sticky notes decorated a cork board. Red string connected photos and documents like a detective’s murder board.

“I’ve been organizing everything.” Harlan gestured at the chaos. “All my grandfather’s papers, the photos, everything that might help explain what happened.”

Flynn picked up a yellowed envelope. The NASA logo was still visible in the corner.

“When exactly did Leslie stop responding to you?”

“Eight days ago. We met for coffee, I showed her some of this.” Harlan waved at the wall of evidence. “She seemed excited about the story. Said she needed to check a few sources. Then nothing.”

Flynn studied the wall of documents. “What exactly did you show Leslie that got her so interested?”

“More photographs from the set.” Sam rifled through a stack of papers on his desk, then moved to a filing cabinet. His movements grew more frantic as he searched. “They showed the lighting rigs, the cameras. One even had my grandfather adjusting what looked like a pulley system attached to an astronaut’s suit.”

He yanked open another drawer. Papers rustled.

“I don’t have them here because Leslie asked to borrow them. Said she needed to verify their authenticity with an expert.” Sam’s face fell. “I should have made copies first.”

Flynn’s jaw tightened. “You gave her the originals?”

“She insisted. Said she couldn’t properly analyze them without the physical prints.” Sam slumped into his desk chair. “She promised to have them back in two days. That was the last time I heard from her.”

“What else was in the photos? Any other people besides your grandfather?”

“A few technicians I didn’t recognize. And the astronauts themselves, of course.” Sam shook his head. “My grandfather never labeled his photos with names. Just dates on the back.”

Flynn picked up a document from the desk. “And you’re sure these photos were taken before the actual moon landing?”

“The dates on the back were all from June 1969 or earlier. Weeks before Apollo 11 launched.”

Sam rummaged through a pile of documents and pulled a manila folder from the bottom of a stack. Papers spilled across the desk, but he didn’t seem to notice. He extracted a black and white photograph, its corners curving inward.

“Wait—this might help.” He handed the photo to Flynn. “Bill Tanner. He worked with my grandfather on the project. As far as I know, he’s the only one still alive.”

Flynn studied the image. A younger man stood next to a massive camera rig, cigarette dangling from his mouth, Hollywood sunglasses perched on his head.

“I mentioned him to Leslie.” Sam rubbed his temples. “Told her he was in a nursing home down near Cocoa Beach. She got real interested when I brought him up, even though I warned her his mind’s going. Alzheimer’s has eaten away most of his memories.”

“You gave her the address?”

“She insisted. Said even confused memories might hold a grain of truth.” Sam’s voice cracked. “I should have known better. The poor guy can barely remember what he had for breakfast, let alone what happened fifty years ago.”

Flynn set the photo down. “Which nursing home?”

“Seaside Gardens. It’s right off A1A.” Sam shuffled through more papers. “I wrote down the exact address for Leslie. Let me find it.”

Sam scribbled the address on a Post-it note and handed it to Flynn. “What do you think happened to her?”

“Leslie’s gone dark before. Sometimes a story takes her off the grid.” Flynn pocketed the note, but his expression hardened. “Though usually not this long.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Because I’m not.” Flynn picked up the photo of Bill Tanner again. Something about the setup behind him caught his eye—thick cables snaking across the floor, professional lighting rigs that looked more suited to a movie set than NASA training footage. “These aren’t rehearsal photos, are they?”

Sam’s shoulders tensed. “What do you mean?”

“Your grandfather worked in special effects. Hollywood-grade equipment. The kind used for major productions.” Flynn tapped the photo. “This isn’t documentation of practice runs. This is a film set.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Sam’s voice dropped to just above a whisper. “They weren’t rehearsing. They were filming.”

“And Leslie figured that out too.”

“She must have. After she met with Tanner...” Sam trailed off, his face paling. “You don’t think⁠—“

“Think what?”

“That someone wanted to keep her quiet?”

Would Leslie ghost a source, especially the one offering to pay her to look into the story? Maybe. But would she do the same to Flynn unless something was wrong.

Flynn stared at the wall of evidence, at the red strings connecting dots that shouldn’t be connected. The moon landing conspiracy was old news, debunked a thousand times over. So why would anyone care if Leslie dug into it now? What could she have possibly found in those original photos or heard from Bill Tanner that was worth silencing her over?

6

HWY A1A | FLORIDA’S SPACE COAST

Flynn found Bill Tanner in the nursing home’s common room, slumped in a wheelchair and staring out the window at a palm tree that swayed in the Florida breeze. A television droned softly in the background, its game show colors reflecting off the linoleum floor.

He introduced himself and explained that he was trying to locate a woman he knew.

Tanner’s head snapped toward him, his eyes sharp and focused with unexpected intensity. “You’re late for the shoot,” he said. “Walter’s been waiting since six.” His weathered hands gripped the wheelchair’s arms.

Flynn said, “My friend. Her name is Leslie Vanderwahl. She visited you recently. I’m trying to find out where she might have gone.”

“Leslie? Dark hair? Pretty girl,” Tanner said, straightening himself in his wheelchair. “She brought the new helmets. Fixed that glare problem we had with the visors. Smart girl, that one.”

Flynn leaned forward, keeping his body language open and unthreatening. “When exactly did you see her?”

“Tuesday. Hot as hell out there. Who builds a studio in the desert to shoot in July?” Tanner’s fingers drummed against the armrest, an agitated staccato rhythm. “She knew her stuff about the lighting. Not like that other girl, what was her name? The one Walter hired for the PR photos. Always chewing gum, drove Walter crazy.”

“Mr. Tanner, Leslie’s a reporter. She came to talk to you about⁠—“

“Reporter?” Tanner shook his head. “No, no. We don’t talk to reporters. That girl was from wardrobe. Had this way of walking, like she owned the place. Reminded me of my Sarah.” His face softened, years melting away from his expression. “Sarah did the costumes for that western picture I worked on. John Wayne played a rancher. Big man, The Duke. Always brought his own coffee to set.”

Flynn watched Tanner drift between memories, mixing faces and times like shuffling a deck of cards. The old man’s eyes would clear for a moment, then cloud over, his expression slipping from the present into some distant, unreachable past.

“Leslie showed me her press badge,” Tanner said, with startling clarity. “Green eyes. Sharp dresser. Kept asking about the moon.” Tanner’s fingers drummed the armrest some more. “She wouldn’t let it go.”

Flynn narrowed his eyes. “What did you tell her?”

Tanner let out a dry chuckle. “Told her the same thing I’ve wondered to myself for years. If there’s anything, it’s in Thirty-One. That’s where they moved the Apollo stuff: mission records, old reports, and the reels—real ones, training ones, doesn’t matter.” His eyes clouded again, his mind slipping back into old loops. “Always wanted to visit Thirty-One. Never made it.”

Flynn pressed. “But you sent Leslie there?”

Tanner frowned, struggling to hold onto the thread. “She said she’d find it. Wouldn’t let it go. Smart girl.” His fingers twitched like he was adjusting a camera lens. Then, as fast as it came, his attention drifted back to the window. “Craters were all wrong,” he muttered. “Had to redo the whole set.”

Flynn leaned toward the man. “Do you know when she left?”

“Left? She’s right there, fixing Thompson’s collar.” Tanner pointed toward a nurse’s aide assisting another resident. “Can’t have wrinkles showing on camera. Walter would throw a fit. Always was a perfectionist, Walter.”

Flynn leaned forward, trying one more time. “Mr. Tanner, What is Thirty-One? Where was Leslie going after she spoke with you?”

Tanner’s gaze wandered back to the window, his attention drifting with the palm fronds. Flynn started to rise from his chair, but the old man’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. The grip was surprisingly strong.

“New Mexico” Tanner said, his voice clear and steady. “That’s what I told her. We shot the whole thing out in the desert. Had these huge lights—biggest I’d ever seen. Took days to get the shadows right.” Built that surface perfect, right down to the footprints. But the stars—“ He shook his head. “Couldn’t get the stars right. Had to add those in during post production.”

“Where in New Mexico?” Flynn asked.

“Classified, all hush-hush. We signed papers. Told us it was for training films, but we knew better. Those weren’t no training films. She asked the right questions. About the shadows, the camera positions. Smart girl.”

“Did you send her to New Mexico?” Flynn said. “You’re talking about Area 51.”

“Like Caroline. Same smile.” Tanner’s face lit up with a sudden joy that made him look decades younger. “Caroline works in makeup. You see her yet?”

“No, Sir. Not yet.” Flynn gritted his teeth. He was close. Tanner was able to remember pieces. He just had to find the right question to unlock the old man’s memory.

“The shadows were wrong in the first test,” Tanner said. “Walter threw a fit. Kicked over the camera dolly. You ever work with tungsten lights? Hot as hell. Burned right through my shirt sleeve. Still got the scar on my arm.”

Flynn interrupted, steering the conversation back on track. “Did Leslie mention any other people she wanted to talk to?”

“Leslie loved palm trees,” Tanner said. “Always wanted one in the backyard. But you can’t grow them in Montana. Too cold. Nothing grows in Montana except trouble.”

Flynn almost made one final attempt to get the man’s focus once more, but knew he had a better chance at getting Tanner to spit out the winning PowerBall numbers.

“Buzz needs his visor adjusted.” Tanner said as he wheeled himself toward the man in the corner after the young aide walked away. “Can’t have that glare showing up on film. The whole ruse would blow up in our faces.”

Flynn watched the old man weave around invisible furniture, mutter to people who existed only in his past, and fumble through stacks of magazines for documents that weren’t there. Flynn had seen it before—his great-uncle fading in and out of reality while young James held his grandfather’s hand, watching the man Grandpa called his brother disappear into the fog of dementia.

A nurse approached, clipboard in hand, her white shoes squeaking on the floor. “I’m sorry, but it’s time for Mr. Tanner’s medication.”

“Just one more question,” Flynn pleaded.

“He gets agitated if we delay his schedule,” she said, positioning herself between Flynn and Bill Tanner’s wheelchair with practiced efficiency. “Perhaps another time?”

Flynn knew the tone. She wasn’t asking.

He stood, watching Tanner mumble about light meters and film stock. Whatever Leslie had learned here, Flynn would have to piece it together without Tanner’s help.

As Flynn turned to leave, the old man muttered something barely audible. Flynn leaned in closer.

“Cyclops,” Tanner said. “They never got it right. It would have worked if it wasn’t for the sky.”

Flynn wanted to prod him for more, but Tanner was already somewhere else, staring at the palm tree outside as if Flynn had vanished completely. He began mumbling quietly about the tree, the thread of coherence slipping away.

Flynn was uncertain whether he’d just heard a clue or random fragments from a fading mind. Either way, he filed the odd word away for later.

Thirty-One. It wasn’t much. But Leslie had followed it somewhere, and Flynn needed to find out where.

7

HOUSTON, TEXAS

Flynn steered through the Johnson Space Center entrance, flashing his visitor’s pass at the security checkpoint. The guard glanced at it, barely interested, and waved him through. The road curved ahead, lined with palm trees and low, rectangular buildings—NASA’s nerve center for human spaceflight. The place had the feel of a well-maintained relic, modernized just enough to stay useful.

He checked the map he’d printed from the visitor website.

Twenty-four hours earlier, Flynn had leaned against the railing of his RV’s small deck, cell phone pressed to his ear. The midday Florida sun baked the river, making the air thick and heavy.

“Thirty-one,” Flynn said. “Mean anything to you?”

Dave Rankin exhaled on the other end of the line. “Thirty-One? As in Area 31? Like a cousin to Area 51?”

“If that was a thing, you’d tell me?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Rankin said. “But it’s not a thing.”

Flynn pinched the bridge of his nose. Rankin had been a reliable source for years, but he loved being a pain in the ass about it.

“So, nothing classified, then?” Flynn pressed.

“Not that I’ve ever seen. And if it’s NASA, it wouldn’t be a military designation.”

“Then what?”

“It’s a little vague, ‘thirty-one,’” Rankin said. “Could be a base designation, could be a mission number. Or a dead guy’s locker. Could be anything, really—an old program, a testing ground. NASA’s got a million numbered projects. Could be a file buried in an archive somewhere. Why? What’s got you sniffing around space stuff?”

Flynn kept it vague. “A lead I’m checking out.”

Rankin made a sound like he was stretching. “You want cold war leftovers, I can give you leftovers. Hell, I got leftovers with freezer burn.”

Flynn stopped pacing. “Dave.”

“I mean, you’ve got your usual suspects—White Sands, Los Alamos, Groom Lake. But if you’re hoping for some smoking-gun op called ‘Thirty-One,’ you’re probably chasing your tail.”

“I’m not chasing anything,” Flynn said. “I’m sorting noise.”

Rankin ignored him. “There was that Reagan-era boondoggle—Star Shield. Remember that one?”

Flynn didn’t.

“Think SDI’s dumber cousin. Orbital targeting, terrain tracking, laser guidance—all the toys. Meant to defend against an imminent Soviet attack; apparently had the KGB all worked up. DOD poured a fortune into it, then pulled the plug after a few years of glorified fireworks shows that did more harm than good. Supposedly the guidance software kept confusing New Mexico with lunar craters.”

Flynn’s voice dropped. “I will hang up, Dave.”

“I’m just saying, if you’re cataloging Cold War disasters, it deserves a mention,” Rankin said. “Rumor is some retired brass has been pushing to resurrect it. Or maybe they just miss the budget line.”

“Can we stay on target?”

“Well... there was another one,” Rankin said. “Project Black Lattice. That one was so classified I’m not even sure it was real. Supposedly involved quantum radar and goats. Don’t quote me.”

Flynn stared at the wall, regretting the call.

Rankin wasn’t done; he was loving this. “Oh, and if you’re cataloging nonsense, toss in Operation Drift Anchor,” he said. “Supposedly an Air Force program to steer weather balloons with mind control. They ran tests for three years before someone realized they were just watching wind.”

Flynn hung up.

Within minutes he was on his couch, laptop open, fingers drumming against the keyboard. He hesitated before clicking the call button on his next contact. Emily Carter was more of an enthusiast than an expert, but she had a knack for uncovering obscure facts—especially when it came to spaceflight history.

The screen lit up, and Emily’s face appeared. Mid-forties, thick-rimmed glasses, hair in a messy bun. She was sitting in what looked like a home office, cluttered with model rockets and stacks of books.

“Flynn?” she said, adjusting her glasses. “Haven’t heard from you in a while. You finally coming around to writing about NASA instead of your usual conspiracy drama?”

Flynn smirked. “You know me, Emily. Always chasing the weird stuff. Got a question for you.”

“Go for it.”

“What does ‘Thirty-One’ mean to you?”

“Building 31? At Johnson?”

“You tell me,” Flynn said. “What’s there?”

“It’s where they keep all the Apollo stuff,” she said.

“What stuff?”

“Records, photos, Cold War-era spacecraft,” she said. “Pretty much everything. Some pretty cool stuff from what I understand.”

“You ever been there?”

“No one has,” she said. “Not unless you’ve got high-level security clearance.”

By the next day, Flynn was in Texas at Johnson Space Center.

Leslie had gone there, too. That much was certain. Now he needed to find out why.

The sprawling campus stretched before him, a collection of low-slung buildings separated by roads and green spaces. Some were connected by covered walkways; others stood apart behind chain-link fences. Security cameras dotted the rooftops, unobtrusive but ever-present as he approached the main entrance.

“James Flynn for the ten a.m. tour,” he told the guard, sliding his ID across the desk.

The guard checked his list and raised his eyes above the upper edge of his clipboard to get a look at Flynn. “Tour starts in fifteen minutes,” he said. “Waiting area’s to your left.”

Flynn followed the direction and settled into a hard plastic chair, watching employees scan badges and hurry through the turnstiles. Building 31 sat at the far end of the complex—a windowless concrete structure with multiple security checkpoints. Whatever Leslie hoped to find in there, she would have needed more than just a standard press pass to get in.

A tour guide in a blue NASA polo gathered the waiting visitors. “Welcome to Johnson Space Center! I’m Rudy and I’ll be showing you around today.”

Flynn fell in behind the group of retirees and families, half-listening to Rudy’s rehearsed speech about NASA’s history. His eyes kept drifting to Building 31. Two armed guards stood at the entrance, checking credentials of anyone who wanted access.

“That building houses our archives and sensitive materials,” Rudy said, following Flynn’s gaze. “Not part of the tour, I’m afraid. But wait until you see Mission Control!”

Flynn hung back as the group moved on. Building 31 had the kind of security that meant either something valuable was inside—or someone wanted people to think something valuable was inside. Either way, Leslie must have found a way in.

Flynn strode back to the tour group, which shuffled into Building 30, home to the Christopher C. Kraft Jr. Mission Control Center. Flynn glanced at the building directory mounted on the wall. The auditorium occupied the first floor, while the historic Mission Control rooms sat above.

Tour Guide Rudy herded them through glass doors into the theater with its rows of burgundy seats sloping down toward a small stage and a large projection screen. Framed photos of Apollo missions lined the walls, each one a historic piece of NASA’s legacy.

Much of the crowd gravitated toward seats in the middle of the auditorium, while some more extroverted guests took spaces near the front. Flynn chose a seat at the rear near the exit where he could follow the presentation but also scan the hallway outside.

A family with matching NASA “meatball” t-shirts filed past him to find seats. The father and mother discussed lunch options while their kids argued over who would sit where. More tourists filtered in, filling the auditorium with excited chatter about space exploration.

Flynn checked his watch against the program that outlined each segment of his tour. The promotional video they were about to show would eat up at least fifteen minutes. Enough time to consider his options for getting into Building 31, which he’d spotted on a facility directory near the entrance. The guards, the cameras, the access protocols—Leslie must have found a weak point somewhere. Sitting here watching Apollo highlights wouldn’t help him find it.

He stood, drawing a look from Rudy, who no doubt loved moments when he could exercise what little authority he had.

“Restroom,” Flynn said, already moving toward the exit paying little regard to the guide

Rudy nodded. “Be quick,” he said. “Film starts in just a few minutes.”

The hallway outside the auditorium stretched toward the building’s main entrance. A few security cameras were mounted high on the walls, standard for government facilities. Building 31 was somewhere deeper in the complex, listed among research facilities in the directory.

Flynn moved through the empty hallway of Building 30, his footsteps echoing off the polished floors. The Mission Control facility had seen countless historic moments, but he wasn’t here for a history lesson. Behind one of these doors was the facility’s security office—he’d spotted it on the building directory.

Room 112 appeared on his right. Through its narrow window, he could see banks of monitors displaying camera feeds from across the complex. A security guard sat at the desk, absorbed in his phone. The door’s keycard reader glowed red.

Flynn dialed the facility’s main security number on his cell phone.

“JSC Security, Officer Martinez speaking.”

“This is Agent Thompson, Building 31 security,” Flynn said. “We’ve got a situation with our camera system. Need you to pull up feeds from the last forty-eight hours.”

A pause. “I don’t have clearance for Building 31 cameras.”

“That’s fine. Check your exterior feeds facing our entrance. Looking for anyone matching this description.” Flynn rattled off Leslie’s details.

“Hold on.” The guard inside Room 112 set down his phone and began typing. “What time frame?”

“Tuesday afternoon through Wednesday morning.”

The guard cycled through footage while Flynn watched through the window from a distance that wouldn’t draw suspicion. If Leslie had found a way into Building 31, the exterior cameras would have caught her approach—even if they missed how she got inside.

“Got something,” the guard said. “Woman matching that description, Tuesday around four p.m. She’s with someone else. Looks like Dr. Marcus Chen from Engineering.”

Flynn committed the name to memory. “Thanks. I’ll follow up from here.”

He ended the call and headed back toward the auditorium.

A NASA PR rep stepped up to the podium, adjusting his tie, just as Flynn returned to his seat in the back of the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special treat today,” The NASA rep said. “Commander Victoria Sloane has graciously agreed to give us a briefing on the upcoming Artemis missions. Following her presentation, Commander Sloane will field questions from the audience and will be available for a few minutes afterward to sign autographs.”

The crowd buzzed with excitement. Flynn recognized Sloane from countless magazine covers and news segments—NASA’s golden girl, their media darling. The new face of space exploration. She stepped up to the stage in her crisp blue flight suit, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.

“Thank you all for coming,” Sloane said. Her voice carried authority without effort, commanding attention from everyone in the room. “Before we discuss Artemis, I’d like to share some history about NASA’s legacy of exploration.”

The lights dimmed. Images of the Apollo missions filled the screen behind her—grainy footage of Neil Armstrong’s first steps, the American flag planted in lunar soil. Flynn noticed how she worked the crowd, making eye contact with different sections as she spoke. She was good.

“We stand on the shoulders of giants,” she continued. “The brave men and women who pushed the boundaries of what humanity thought possible. Now, we’re ready to return to the moon—and this time, we’re going to stay.”

The presentation clicked through slides showing new spacecraft designs and lunar base concepts. Sleek vessels with swept-back wings gave way to modular habitation units nestled in lunar craters, each image more compelling than the last.

Commander Sloane’s voice carried through the auditorium with natural ease as she highlighted key features—revolutionary propulsion systems, radiation-hardened living quarters, and automated mining equipment that would extract precious resources from the moon’s surface. The audience leaned forward in their seats, captivated by visions of humanity’s next great leap into space.

Sloane’s delivery was flawless, each word carefully chosen to inspire and educate without revealing anything classified. Her tone carried just the right mix of authority and enthusiasm, drawing the audience in while maintaining perfect control of the narrative. She knew exactly what she was doing—this wasn’t just a briefing, it was a performance, and she was a virtuoso.

Sloane paused mid-sentence, her eyes landing on a young girl in the front row who had raised her hand.

“Yes?” Sloane stepped away from the podium, crouching down to the girl’s eye level.

The little girl’s voice creaked through the auditorium, fragile and uncertain. “My brother says girls can’t be astronauts.”

A ripple of uncomfortable laughter moved through the crowd. Flynn expected the standard PR response—some rehearsed line about equality and breaking barriers. Instead, Sloane’s face broke into a genuine smile and she spoke directly to the young girl.

“You know what? When I was your age, my dad took me to an air show,” she said. “I saw these incredible pilots doing things I didn’t think were possible. After the show, I made up my mind: I wanted to fly jets. Some people laughed. But my dad said something I’ll never forget: ‘The sky doesn’t care who you are. It only cares if you’re good enough.’”

Flynn watched as Sloane held the girl’s attention. There was no condescension, no grandstanding, no cliched response begging for cheap applause from the crowd. Just raw honesty that cut through his usual skepticism.

“So I worked harder than anyone else,” Sloane said. “I studied longer. I trained more. And you know what? That sky let me right in.” She stood to address the full room. “It’s not about being a girl or a boy. It’s about being good enough. And I bet you’re already working on being good enough, aren’t you?”

The girl, a fresh smile plastered on her face, nodded.

“That’s what I thought.” Sloane winked at her before returning to the podium. She didn’t milk the moment or play it up for sympathy. She just let it breathe, then smoothly transitioned back to her presentation.

Flynn found himself leaning forward in his seat. Everything about Commander Sloane screamed competence—not the manufactured kind that politicians loved to project, but the real deal. She knew her stuff cold, answered technical questions with precision, and never once reached for easy applause lines.

For the first time in years, Flynn felt that rare spark of genuine admiration. She was the real thing.

“I’ll take your questions now,” she announced.

She scanned the audience for questions and paused briefly on Flynn. He could have sworn the corner of her mouth twitched in what he interpreted as recognition—or amusement.

She spent the next few moments answering some pretty mundane questions from the tourists before wrapping up her presentation. “Next time you’re in Houston,” she said. “Stop by Mission Control. I’ll show you what real space exploration looks like.”

Sloane smiled and waved, and the audience applauded their approval.

The crowd meandered forward as Commander Sloane stepped off the stage, everyone eager for autographs and selfies. Flynn hung back, studying her interactions. Each gesture, each response seemed calibrated for maximum effect—but unlike most people in her position, she made it look effortless.

“She’s good, isn’t she?”

The voice beside him scattered his thoughts. Leslie Vanderwahl slid into the empty seat next to him, her dark hair tucked under a dark blue baseball cap. She held him with a shit-eating grin that made Flynn wish he’d not gotten involved with this story.

She started right in. “Getting sloppy in your old age.” She leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, still holding that smirk that drove Flynn crazy. “I found you before you found me.”

“I wasn’t looking that hard.”

“Please,” said. “Sam Harlan told me you were asking about me, came all the way to Houston—for me. You’re really slipping, Flynn.”

The jab stung more than he wanted to admit. “You disappeared,” he said.

“I didn’t,” she said. “I was busy and I didn’t want to give Sam minute-by-minute recaps, so I ignored his calls.”

“And mine.”

“Awww, were you worried about me, Flynn? That’s sweet. Pathetic, but in a sweet sort of creepy uncle way, I guess.”

Flynn said, “It was Building 31. Tanner let it slip that you were headed this way. Did you get inside?”

“She’s hiding something,” Leslie said, ignoring the question and nudging Flynn toward Sloane. “I had a nice chat with Astronaut Barbie yesterday. She thinks I’m unprofessional. I think she’s full of shit. We’ve agreed to disagree. And don’t pretend you’re here out of concern for my welfare. You want this story as badly as I do.”

Flynn shot Leslie a look that was equal parts surprise and pain.

She ignored him and said, “While you were playing tourist, I found something interesting.” She pulled out her phone, swiped through a few screens. “Remember that photo Sam showed you? His grandfather with Armstrong?”

Flynn nodded.

“Well, look at this.” She held up her phone. The image showed another photo, clearly taken at the same place and time, but zoomed in on a detail in the background—a whiteboard covered in equations and diagrams. “That’s not movie math. Those are real orbital mechanics calculations. And they’re wrong.”

Flynn studied the image. “Wrong how?”

“They calculate a trajectory that would have killed the astronauts.” Leslie’s eyes locked onto his. “Someone deliberately wrote incorrect calculations on that board. The question is: why put fake math in a supposedly fake photo?”

Flynn leaned back in his chair, watching Leslie scroll through her phone. “You got inside, didn’t you?”

She didn’t look up. “Inside what?”

“Building 31,” he said.

Leslie smirked. “Cute theory, but if I had, don’t you think I’d have mentioned it?”

A fraction of a second ticked by—just enough for Flynn to see the slight hitch in her expression before she recovered.

Leslie finally sighed and met his eyes. “Look, Flynn, I appreciate the concern, but you’re late to the party. If there was anything worth finding in that building, don’t you think I’d already have it?”

Maybe she had. Maybe she hadn’t. But Flynn wasn’t about to take her word for it.

Leslie stood, pocketing her phone. “Welcome to Houston, Flynn,” she said. “Try not to slow me down.”

She left him sitting there, watching the door swing shut behind her.

Victoria Sloane was still signing autographs for the stragglers.

If Leslie wasn’t telling him everything, that meant she thought she was on to something big and didn’t want him to know.

It didn’t sit right.

She wanted to believe she was always two steps ahead, the sharper investigator, the one who saw the angles he missed. Maybe she had a lead. Maybe she’d figured out something he hadn’t. But could she put it all together? Could she finish the job like he had done so many times before?

Flynn stood and made his way toward Commander Victoria Sloane.

If there was something to find in Building 31, he’d be the one to find it. And this time, Leslie Vanderwahl would be the one playing catch-up.

8

JOHNSON SPACE CENTER, HOUSTON

So NASA’s biggest challenge during the space race wasn’t beating the Soviets—it was body odor?” Flynn said.

He sat sideways in the plastic cafeteria seat, resting his elbow on the back of the chair. Though the dining hall hummed with conversation, he delivered a quiet, relaxed tone.

A smirk played across Sloane’s lips as her unpolished nails tapped the tabletop. Her presence carried the same calculated precision he’d observed earlier during her presentation. “Spending days in a cramped spacecraft without bathing? Those space pioneers earned their status for enduring more than just the dangers of orbit. Opening those capsules released a stench that could knock flies off fresh roadkill.”

“And here I’d assumed that Tang was the worst thing those boys had to deal with,” Flynn said, sampling the harsh Johnson Space Center coffee and wincing at the unpleasant aftertaste.

Victoria had brought her own tea and steeped the bag in an ornate mug filled with hot water.

“You don’t seem like someone who’d take a standard facility tour for the rehearsed speeches,” she said as she sipped her tea and made a face that said it was too hot. Her grey-blue eyes held him with unwavering focus, reminding him to be on his guard. This woman was sharp, and he didn’t want to say anything that could come back to bite him.

Flynn shrugged with calculated indifference, a gesture he’d perfected over years of fieldwork. “Perhaps I’m expanding my interests,” he said. “I loved rockets when I was a kid. I always wanted to go to Space Camp and hoped to one day be an astronaut.”

Victoria held her mug with both hands. “But, you decided to become a spy instead,” she said, probing.

“It’s not that different from space exploration if you think about it,” he said. “I’ve always been intrigued by who’s beyond the curtain, what is locked behind that door. I wanted to see and know things other people didn’t. Go places others couldn’t go. I dreamed about spaceflight but took things in another direction once I got to the Air Force.”

Victoria’s smile shifted into something more predatory. Flynn caught the change—subtle but unmistakable. She leaned forward, still gripping her tea with two hands.

“The Air Force’s loss was the CIA’s gain, I suppose.” Her voice carried a hint of amusement that didn’t reach her eyes. “Though these days you seem content giving boat tours to retirees.”

Flynn felt a shift, a quiet, tiny ping in the back of his mind. He hadn’t mentioned his current occupation, and it wasn’t the kind of detail you found in a quick Google search. She’d looked into him.

“The benefits package was better,” he said, keeping his tone light. “Plus, I get to work on my tan.”

“And yet here you are, poking around Johnson Space Center.” She tilted her head, studying him like he was an intriguing experiment. “Following Leslie Vanderwahl’s breadcrumbs like you’re hot on another investigation.”

He watched Victoria’s eyes tighten when she choked out Leslie’s name.

She continued, “You know, I have a lot of respect for good journalism. But there’s a line between asking the right questions and being a pain in the ass.”

Flynn smiled into his coffee. “You don’t say?”

Victoria arched an eyebrow. “Don’t play dumb, Flynn,” she said. “You know exactly what I mean.”

He let out a slow sigh, shaking his head as if they were both enduring the same recurring headache. “Leslie’s—persistent,” he said. “She gets something in her head, and that’s it—nothing else exists. Not ethics, not common sense, not other people’s patience.”

Victoria huffed. “She was here yesterday, demanding access to classified materials like her press badge was some kind of golden key. She kept asking about Apollo, but she didn’t even know what she was really looking for.”

Flynn latched onto that. “How so?”

“She’s asking the wrong questions,” Victoria said. “She thinks if she just pushes hard enough, she’ll find some grand deception. But there’s nothing there. And she’s too stubborn to realize it.”

Flynn gave a casual shrug, as if the topic barely interested him. “Sounds like her. Leslie’s a hammer looking for nails.”

“Then she’s wasting her time,” she said.

Flynn tapped his coffee cup. “I assume you said as much?”

“Oh, I tried,” Victoria said, shaking her head. “But, that woman only hears what she wants to. Kept going on about inconsistencies in historical records, old files. As if NASA has some grand conspiracy buried in a basement somewhere.”

Flynn chuckled like it was all absurd. “Yeah, that’s Leslie. If there’s a roadblock with a detour sign, she’s convinced it’s hiding the biggest story of the century.”

Victoria leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as she tapped the inside of her mug with a spoon. “Well, let me tell you something, Flynn—she’s digging in the wrong places. If there was something to find, it wouldn’t be in some dusty old archive. And it sure as hell wouldn’t be in public records.”

Flynn kept his expression neutral, but internally, he was locking every word into place. That was something.

She took a sip of her tea. “On the subject of facts—switching from intelligence work to reporting is quite the change.” Victoria cocked her head, sending her tied-back hair swinging. Her tone carried the practiced casualness of someone who’d reviewed his file thoroughly. “Tired of destabilizing regimes?”

“I prefer documenting them now. Less administrative hassle.” He placed his cup down, aware that this verbal sparring match was escalating.

“I’m familiar with your articles,” she said. “You excel at uncovering secrets people prefer hidden.” Her casual comment carried a veiled menace, like a silk glove covering brass knuckles.

“Just keeping the public informed.” His response mirrored her underlying hostility, wrapped in the same false pleasantries.

The tension in Victoria’s body language eased.

Flynn set down his coffee. “I’ve got to admit, I wasn’t expecting this tour to come with such colorful commentary.”

Victoria let out a quiet laugh. “Consider it a bonus.”

“So what exactly do you do for NASA?” Flynn asked.

Victoria hesitated, just for a second. “Flight ops. Systems integration. I also work with some… sensitive programs.”

Flynn leaned back. “Sounds important.”

She waved him off but couldn’t hide the flicker of pride in her voice. “It is. At least, I think it is.”

“But you can’t say what it is,” Flynn said. “Mysterious.”

“Not really.” She glanced away, then added, “Let’s just say I work with satellites programmed for a very specific purpose.”

Flynn raised an eyebrow. He could tell she wanted to say more but was not willing—or allowed—to go into more detail.

“You know,” she said with a smile. “Space stuff.”

A beautiful smile. It was obvious why NASA was putting this woman front and center. She had the right attitude, personality, and charm to get the public back on the side of space exploration. And, she was damn smart. Flynn had seen enough impostors over the years to know the real deal. He wouldn’t want to challenge Victoria Sloane in a battle of wits.

“A top secret gig like that,” Flynn said. “You’re either just that damn good, or you’ve got someone high up the ladder pulling strings for you.”

“Those two things are not mutually exclusive,” she said, an edge to her voice.

Flynn glanced at his watch, then stood. “Well, this has been enlightening. Maybe I’ll take you up on that Mission Control tour sometime. Get the real NASA experience.”

Victoria picked up her tea, her eyes appraising him for a beat before she nodded. “You should.”

Flynn gave her a lazy salute. “Until then, Commander.”

As he walked away, he didn’t need to look back to know she was watching him.

She’d given him exactly what he needed.

Leslie had not gotten inside Building 31.

And Victoria Sloane had just confirmed that there was something in there worth hiding.

Dr. Marcus Chen adjusted his glasses and frowned at his laptop screen, oblivious to the woman draped across his desk like a human-sized house cat. Leslie Vanderwahl propped her chin on one hand, idly tracing patterns on the desk with a finger.

“You work too hard, Marcus,” she purred.

He typed something without looking up. “That’s what they pay me for.”

Leslie let out a dramatic sigh and reached for the pen sitting next to his keyboard, twirling it between her fingers. “But all work and no play makes Marcus a very dull boy. When was the last time you took a risk?”

Chen finally looked at her, unimpressed. “This is the last time I let you in here.”

Leslie grinned. “See? You lived. I’d even say you enjoyed it.”

He snatched the pen from her hand. “You tried to bribe me with gas station sushi.”

“I offered you a free lunch,” she said.

“Gas. Station. Sushi.”

“Okay, so maybe that was a strategic miscalculation. But you can’t tell me you didn’t like my company.”

Chen leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “I have a PhD in aerospace engineering, Leslie. Do I strike you as a man easily swayed by a pouty mouth and expired raw fish?”

Leslie groaned and sat up, folding her legs criss-cross on Chen’s desktop. “Marcus, come on. I just need one look inside Building 31. Just a peek.”

Chen massaged his temples. “You’re relentless.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is when my security clearance is on the line,” he said.

“Fine,” she huffed. “Forget sneaking me in. Just tell me—is there anything in there? Any files? Old footage? I’m not even asking for classified stuff. I just need to know if I’m chasing a dead end.”

Chen hesitated. And in that hesitation, Leslie knew she had him—just for a second.

Then he shook his head. “Even if I wanted to help you, it wouldn’t matter. Building 31 is on lockdown for the next week. Clearance is restricted.”

Leslie’s eyes narrowed. “Locked down? Since when?”

“Two days ago.” Chen straightened a stack of papers on his desk, not meeting her gaze. “Some kind of maintenance, I think.”

“For a week?” Leslie slid off his desk and circled behind him. “That’s not normal protocol.”

“Look, I don’t make the rules.” Chen’s shoulders tensed as she leaned over him. “They tell us where we can and can’t go. I just do my job.”

“But you must have heard something. Office gossip? Water cooler chat?”

“Nothing.” Chen spun his chair to face her. “And before you ask—no, I don’t know who ordered it.”

Leslie crossed her arms. “You’re telling me an entire building gets shut down, and nobody knows why?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” Chen’s voice had an edge now. “And frankly, I don’t care why. Neither should you.”

“Come on, Marcus. You’re too smart to buy that.” Leslie perched on the edge of his desk again. “They’re doing something in there. Something they don’t want anyone to see.”

“Or maybe they’re replacing the air conditioning.” Chen turned back to his laptop. “Not everything is a conspiracy, Leslie.”

“No,” Leslie said. “But this? This feels wrong. You know it does.”

Chen’s fingers hovered over his keyboard. For a moment, Leslie thought she saw doubt flicker across his face. Then he shook his head.

“I’ve got work to do,” he said. “And you need to leave before security does their rounds.”

Leslie didn’t move.

“Leslie, let it go,” Chen said. “I like my job.”

She let out a slow breath, forcing a smile. “Fine. I’ll go back to my bad ideas drawer and pick another one.”

Chen said, “Might want to check the expiration dates on those, too.”

Leslie flicked his forehead and stood. Another dead end.

But as she walked out of the engineering building, debating whether breaking into a federal facility was worth it, she nearly collided with Commander Victoria Sloane.

Loudoun County, Virginia

Alexei Volkov parked beneath a cluster of oak trees on a ridge overlooking the Danbury estate. The house sat at the end of a long paved driveway, nestled among rolling hills and split-rail fences. The main structure was a grand colonial with red brick, white columns, and tall shuttered windows. A porch wrapped around the front, and the back terrace overlooked a wide field that sloped gently toward a tree line.sight-lines

It was not a compound. It was not a fortress. It was something more subtle—old money, old power, the kind that did not require gates or guards to assert control.

Volkov preferred cities. He disliked the long sight-lines and quiet stillness of the countryside. Too many open spaces. Too many ways to be seen. But he had arrived early, mapped the angles, and chosen a spot where he could remain hidden. The sedan was parked between the trees, cooled by the lingering shade, its dull black paint blending easily with the surroundings.

He lifted the scope from the padded case in the passenger seat and set it gently against the partially lowered window. It was an older Russian model, modified for clarity. The optics were excellent. American-made versions were lighter, but Volkov did not trust them.

Through the lens, he watched two men standing on the rear patio of a large brick house. The man on the left wore a civilian coat with an American flag pin on the lapel. His posture was relaxed, but Volkov noted how often he shifted his weight. The man on the right stood straighter, more controlled. His stance was not defensive, but it was practiced.

Volkov did not need facial recognition software. He had memorized their profiles weeks ago. The civilian was Senator Quentin Danbury of Virginia. The man beside him was Admiral Paul Barrow.

The two men spoke quietly, their conversation obscured by distance and the thick glass doors behind them. Volkov made no attempt to record audio. He had learned that watching body language often produced better results than relying on poor microphones.

Danbury poured from a crystal decanter and handed Barrow a glass. The men clinked their glasses once before taking short sips. This was not a celebration. There was no laughter, no visible ease between them. This was business.

He zoomed in on Barrow’s face. The admiral’s eyes remained alert even while drinking. His expression did not change once during the exchange. This told Volkov what he needed to know. Barrow did not trust Danbury. Not fully.

Danbury leaned closer, gesturing with two fingers as if pointing to a column of numbers. Volkov captured the motion, then followed Barrow’s reaction. Barrow gave no verbal response, but he tapped the side of his glass against the patio railing. Once. Then again. Then a third time.

After the third tap, he spoke.

Volkov adjusted the scope, locked in on the admiral’s mouth, and read the words clearly.

“Star Shield is not optional.”

Volkov said nothing. He let the scope fall away from his eye and rested it across his lap.

He opened a small notebook, the kind issued by the old service, and wrote a single line of Cyrillic characters. His handwriting was compact and without flair. He underlined the phrase: Star Shield.

For the past several months, Volkov had tracked Admiral Barrow through various circles—defense briefings, appropriations panels, and private meetings with aerospace contractors. None of it had yielded more than speculation. But this meeting, here in Danbury’s private residence, was the first moment of clarity.

Barrow was not a soldier playing politics. He was something else entirely. Volkov had seen men like him before, though not often. Cold, determined, convinced of their purpose. Men like that were dangerous not because of what they did, but because of what they believed they were entitled to do.

Volkov slid the scope back into its case and closed the notebook.

He started the engine without turning on the headlights.

It was time to begin.

9

JOHNSON SPACE CENTER, HOUSTON

Victoria Sloane stood, arms crossed, like a teacher waiting to chastise a tardy student sneaking into class.

“You’re persistent,” she said, a note of irritation in her voice.

“I like to think of it as dedicated,” Leslie said.

Victoria studied her for a beat. Then, to Leslie’s surprise, she nodded and said, “Fine. Let’s settle this. You want to see inside Building 31?”

Leslie fought to mask her shock with a confident face. “Just like that?”

Victoria’s smile was tight, controlled. “Just like that. Maybe if I show you there’s nothing inside worth chasing, you’ll finally move on.”

Leslie hesitated, wary now. It was suddenly too easy. But an invitation was an invitation.

“Great,” she said, sliding her hands into her pockets. “When do we go?”

Victoria glanced at her watch. “I don’t know, how does right now sound?”

Leslie smirked, turning toward the entrance—only to spot Flynn stepping out of the cafeteria.

An idea hit her instantly. A decadently petty idea.

She slowed her pace just enough for Victoria to fall into step beside her. Then, with the most casual, offhand tone she could manage, she asked, “Can I bring a friend?”

Victoria followed her gaze to Flynn. A beat passed. Just long enough for Leslie to recognize a fellow mean girl.

Victoria exhaled through her nose, then smirked. “Sure.”

Leslie turned toward Flynn and grinned.

“Hey, Flynn!” she called out. “Wanna see something cool?”

Leslie walked a few steps behind as Victoria led them into the restricted section of Building 31. The badge clipped to her jacket read, “VISITOR,” and no one gave them a second glance with Sloane as their guide.

The room was colder than she expected. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Display cases and shelves lined the walls and center of the space, filled with labeled binders, manuals, reels, and flight logs from the Apollo missions. Everything was orderly, preserved, and behind glass.

Flynn moved to Victoria’s side as if they’d known each other for years. He cracked a comment about the sealant labels on one of the display cases, and Victoria laughed a little too loudly. Leslie kept moving.

They paused in front of a case containing Apollo 11 launch and re-entry documents. Victoria gestured at the corner of one document and launched into a story about heat shielding. Flynn asked a follow-up question. She answered with enthusiasm.

Leslie resisted the urge to gag before circling behind them into a side aisle.

A row of unsealed archival folders sat along a narrow shelf behind one of the larger displays. She scanned the labels. Most were categorized by date—logistics, supply chain, astronaut training schedules.

She found one labeled July 1969 – Internal Memoranda and opened it just enough to peek inside. Typed pages. Stamps from the Office of Manned Space Flight. She flipped to the second page. A memo about a change in launch-day staffing protocol. Interesting, but probably not useful.

Behind her, Flynn and Victoria were still talking.

“—was never part of the mission script,” Victoria was saying. “Buzz improvised.”

Flynn said, “No kidding. Do you guys still train for that?”

Leslie wanted to vomit. She reached for another labeled Pre-Mission Logistics but stopped when she heard Victoria laugh again, a little too spirited in her opinion. She stepped back into the main corridor and saw them still side by side, standing a little too close at the center display.

Flynn made a joke about the old camera rig. Victoria laughed again and shook her head, tossing her blond hair from one shoulder to the other.

Flynn nodded and gestured to the next case. “Lead the way.”

Leslie didn’t say anything else. She followed, hands tucked under her armpits. She had seen enough for today. She just hadn’t found what she was looking for.

Not yet anyway.

10

HOUSTON, TEXAS

Flynn sat in the booth and stirred his coffee as he glanced at the clock on the wall. He was early, as always, but that wasn’t the only reason he had time to think. He hadn’t seen or heard from Leslie since they’d left Building 31 the night before.

She hadn’t called. No texts. No smug little messages letting him know she was two steps ahead. That wasn’t like her.

Leslie thrived on competition—especially when it came to him. If she had uncovered something, she would’ve made damn sure he knew it, if only to rub it in his face. But there had been nothing.

That could mean a few things. Maybe she’d hit a dead end and was sulking in her hotel room, tearing apart every scrap of research she had. Or maybe she was already onto the next lead, too busy chasing something bigger to bother with him.

Either way, Flynn wasn’t about to go looking for her again. She could handle herself. And if not, she wasn’t his problem.

Still, he found himself watching the door every time it opened, half-expecting Leslie to waltz in with that self-satisfied grin, ready to one-up him.

Instead, it was Victoria Sloane who stepped inside.

Victoria had chosen the venue: The Astronaut Diner, the kind of place with chrome stools, laminated menus, and waitresses who called you “hon,” with just a hint of Texas twang.

Victoria strutted in like a rock star, sporting mirrored aviator sunglasses and a blue NASA pilot’s jacket slung over one shoulder. All of the staff knew her, as did some of the customers, who turned to watch her. She spotted Flynn instantly and failed to corral a smile as she approached the table.

“Be honest,” she said and slid into the booth across from him. “You got here early so you could grab the seat with the best view of the door, didn’t you?”

Flynn shrugged. “Old habits.”

Victoria smiled and raised a hand to get the waitress’s attention. “Coffee, black. And—“ She glanced at Flynn’s half-empty mug. “Need a refill?”

“I’m pacing myself.”

She tilted her head, watching him. “So you’re patient when you want to be.”

Flynn shrugged. “When I need to be.”

The waitress poured her coffee, and Victoria took a slow sip, glancing around the diner. “This place has history,” she said. “Astronauts started to come here in the early days. Back when NASA was still figuring it all out. Gordon Cooper practically ate all of his meals here.”

“Figured as much,” Flynn said. “Feels like the kind of place where big ideas got tossed around over bad coffee.”

“Some of the worst coffee in Houston, actually. But the conversations made up for it.”

“That’s why you picked it for our meeting?”

She nodded. “I like places where people don’t put on a show. It’s easier to have real conversations.”

Flynn let that sit for a second. “So, that means I’m getting the real Victoria Sloane right now?”

“Depends. Am I getting the real James Flynn?”

“I don’t like to play games,” Flynn said.

Victoria gestured toward the clock on the wall. “Then how do you account for this?”

Flynn barely glanced at it. “What’s this?”

She tilted her head slightly. “You. Sitting here. Before me.”

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for punctuality.”

Victoria leaned back in her seat, unconvinced. “I’m fifteen minutes early and you’re already here. You don’t know Houston. You had a longer drive. And I picked this place—I could get here in my sleep. So… how much thought went into making sure you beat me here?”

“Not much.”

“Uh-huh,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “What time did you leave?”

Flynn took a slow sip, dragging out the moment. “Early enough.”

“Did you check the traffic patterns?”

“I accounted for variables.”

Victoria laughed. “Unbelievable. You actually scouted the fastest way here just to make sure you’d beat me.”

He’s always realized his obsession for details looked strange to other people, but it’s what made him good at his job. “Why leave it to chance?”

Victoria shook her head. “See? You say you don’t like games, but I think you just like winning them too much to admit it.”

“You don’t like to win?” he said.

“When it counts, sure.”

Flynn let the moment linger before her expression shifted, something quieter settling in.

“I used to think I knew everything there was to know about Apollo 11,” she said “Obviously I wasn’t even born yet when Armstrong stepped on the moon. But, I was obsessed with every detail of the mission. The way NASA tells the story, the way it’s been taught for decades—it’s airtight. It’s history. Or at least, that’s what I believed.”

Flynn let her finish.

“But since I met you, I’ve been wondering if there’s more to the story.” she said. “Not that the moon landing was faked, but whether something else was kept off the record—something we were never supposed to question.”

Flynn pulled a file folder, thick with documents from his backpack and slid it across the table.

Victoria opened the file and read the first page. It was a document log from February 1969, with a series of classified file numbers. Some were marked Transferred to Archives, others Restricted Access, but a handful were stamped with a single word: PURGED.

“Where did you get this?” she asked.

“Building 31,” Flynn said.

She gave him a look. “You stole this?”

“Borrowed,” he said.

“Do you have any idea how bad this looks?” Her voice was low now. “NASA doesn’t exactly hand out classified files to journalists.”

“Exactly,” Flynn said. “And that’s why I needed to show you. If I hand this to anyone else, it disappears forever. If I take it to the press, they write me off as another conspiracy nut. But you? You have a seat at the table. You have access. If there’s a way to find out what’s missing, it’s through you.”

Victoria stared at the document. Her expression told Flynn that she was torn between duty and wanting to know the truth.

“I didn’t take this for fun, Victoria. I took it because you’re the only person who can help me find out what else they buried. I was going to give them back to you.” He paused. “Once I knew I could trust you.”

She shook her head. “And what, you expect me to waltz into work with that file in my bag? I have clearance, Flynn, but I don’t have borrow-classified-Apollo-11-documents clearance.”

“We don’t have time to lose.”

Victoria blinked. “Excuse me? You’re unbelievable. Do you even hear yourself? If I’m caught with this, I could lose my job.”

Flynn leaned forward, dropping his voice just enough to sound reassuring. “You’re not smuggling state secrets out of Langley, you’re holding a few old NASA memos that were forgotten over fifty years ago. Worst case? You get caught and tell them you were researching Apollo 11 for a presentation.”

She didn’t look convinced. He manufactured an easy smile to ease her mind. “Look, you’re too smart to walk away from this. You want answers as much as I do. You just don’t want to admit it yet.”

She tightened her jaw, staying silent.

Flynn sat back, satisfied. “So… where do we start?”

She glanced back down at the document, silent for a moment. Then she let out a slow breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here we are.”

She stared at him for a moment and then looked back at the documents, her lips pressing into a thin line. She flipped through a few pages, taking a few seconds to skim each one.

“I know how record-keeping worked back then,” she said. “Some files get lost. Some are reclassified. It doesn’t mean⁠—“

“Read the footnote,” Flynn said.

She did. Then she froze.

Files listed as PURGED were removed from record under directive of the Office of Manned Space Flight. No preservation copies exist.

“This … this doesn’t make sense,” she said. “The Office of Manned Space Flight wouldn’t just erase mission records.”

Flynn sat back. “They did. And not just a few. I counted at least twenty file removals between February and July 1969—right before Apollo 11 launched.”

Victoria set the paper down carefully, as if it might burn her fingers. “You’re saying someone at NASA deliberately erased records connected to Apollo 11?”

“I’m saying someone made sure those files were never supposed to be seen again,” he said.

He let her ask the question.

“Why?”

“That’s what I want to know, Commander Sloane,” he said. “Why do you think that’s the case?”

Her face told him that she was in disbelief, trying to process what she was seeing in official documents.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t want to believe it, but I also can’t argue with what’s right in front of me.”

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “I need to know who still has access to these records. If there’s anyone left from that era who might have seen something before it was wiped.”

“You realize what you’re asking, right? If I start looking into this, it won’t go unnoticed.”

Flynn met her eyes. “That’s why I need you on my side.”

Victoria held his gaze, then let out a breath—half-exasperated, half-resigned.

“God help me,” she muttered. “Alright, Flynn. Let’s see where this leads.”

11

The hotel room was nothing special—clean enough, functional, forgettable. Flynn had stayed in worse places. He sat on the edge of the bed, shoes off, going over his notes when his phone buzzed.

Victoria.

He considered letting it ring for a while, just to make her wait. Instead, he answered right away.

“Check out of that hotel,” she said. No preamble, no greeting. Just a direct order.

“I was just getting comfortable,” he said, playing with her.

“That’s a shame. Fortunately for me your comfort isn’t my concern. We need to start going over the investigation.”

“We could do that in the morning over Houston’s worst coffee. I liked that Astronaut Diner.”

“I don’t want to have to chase you all over Houston, cleaning up your mess,” she said. “It’s easier if I know where to find you.”

“At your place?”

“You’re on the couch, Flynn” she said. “Don’t get any ridiculous ideas.”

Flynn let the moment stretch. “Sounds like an upgrade,” he finally said.

“Don’t make me regret it,” she said, then hung up.

Flynn looked at the phone, then at the hotel room. Forgettable was right. He grabbed his bag.

From the outside, Victoria’s place fit her—modern, understated, but classy. A two-story townhouse tucked at the end of a quiet street just outside the denser parts of Houston. It had the kind of clean architecture that was meant to look effortless, though Flynn suspected it came with a price tag that said otherwise.

She had money, of course. NASA didn’t make its astronauts rich, but the speaking engagements, the endorsements—those paid well. Still, the place wasn’t flashy. A small porch, light gray exterior, no real yard to maintain. Practical.

Victoria opened the door looking unsure of her decision to invite him over. “Let’s get one thing straight,” she said. “This is not me rolling out the welcome mat.”

“I know,” Flynn said, setting his bag down by the entryway. “Containment, not an invitation.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re paying attention.”

He followed her in. The inside didn’t match the exterior and wasn’t at all what he expected.

Flynn had pictured something sleek, minimalist, barely lived-in. Instead, the space had an unpolished edge to it. The furniture was modern, high-end, but the details were off—stacks of books left open on the coffee table, mail scattered across the kitchen counter, a half-folded pile of laundry on one of the chairs. Dirty dishes in the sink. And he could tell she’d tried to tidy up before he got there.

Near the front door, a duffel bag sat half-zipped on the floor, as if she had been in the middle of packing and then just stopped.

He didn’t comment, but she caught him looking.

“The maid’s on vacation,” she said with a hint of embarrassment. “It’s me. I’m the maid. It’s been a crazy couple of weeks. I’ve been so busy. I haven’t had time to⁠—“

Flynn interrupted. “It’s fine. You should see my place.”

It seemed to put her at ease. She removed a stack of papers from a chair at the dining room table with both hands and invited him to sit. It caught him off guard, this behind-the-scenes version of the seemingly perfect Commander Victoria Sloane. She wasn’t as put-together as she wanted the world to believe. And that somehow made her a hell of a lot more interesting.

Flynn drifted toward a cluttered bookshelf, where a few framed photos sat among hardcovers and NASA memorabilia. One caught his eye—a group of Navy pilots on a carrier deck, flight suits half-zipped, helmets tucked under their arms. Victoria stood near the center, younger but unmistakable. Beside her, an older man in dress whites.

“Old squadron?” Flynn asked, pointing to the photo.

Victoria looked over. “That’s us.”

She moved past him, casually picking up the frame as if to dust it, then set it back down—angled slightly out of view.

Flynn didn’t press. The man in the photo looked familiar, but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen his face before.

“You’re on the couch,” she said, seemingly more for her own clarity than his.

“You said that already.”

“I meant it both times.”

Flynn smiled.

“Don’t make me regret this,” she said.

“You already said that, too,” he said, winking at her.

Flynn settled into the chair, watching as Victoria moved around the kitchen, opening a cabinet and pulling out two glasses. She poured water, setting one in front of him before taking the seat across from him at the dining table.

“Let’s start with what we know,” she said.

Flynn leaned back slightly. “You mean what I know?”

She gave him a flat look. “You’re not the only one chasing this story now, Flynn. And I have better sources.”

“Debatable,” he said.

“Well, you brought me in for my access,” she said. “And, I spent the afternoon since I last saw you, using said access to look into something.”

“And?”

“A file is missing. I have to assume Leslie took it.”

“You’re sure?”

Victoria nodded. “There’s a procurement file missing from the archive. She was sloppy. The shelf was a mess.”

Flynn shook his head. “Unbelievable. Not the part that she made a mess. I swear the girl is part raccoon. But it’s unbelievable she’d steal a file from NASA.”

Victoria smirked. “Says the guy who also stole classified documents from Building 31.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Flynn gestured vaguely. “I was investigating.”

Victoria leaned back in her chair, watching him. “And what do you think she’s doing?”

“It’s just different, that’s all” he said, getting irritated. “I gave the file back.”

“I’m not sure law enforcement would see it that way,” she said. “But let’s move on.”

“What was in her file?”

Victoria shook her head. “I don’t know. The system only logs the category. It was Procurement, so… contracts, materials, supply orders. Could be anything.”

Flynn thought about that. Procurement wasn’t where you buried secrets—it was where the things you wanted to stay hidden accidentally left a trail.

Victoria studied him. “She’s onto something, Flynn.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

“There is one interesting detail, though,” she said. “The file had a catalog number that I cross-checked in our system. It should have a brief description of the general contents.”

“So, what is it?” Flynn asked.

“I don’t know. The information was purged. All I have is a date. August 1969.”

“A month after Armstrong stepped on the moon.”

“You actually believe it, don’t you? That they’re hiding something bigger than telemetry data and missing archives.”

“I believe people don’t bury things unless they have a reason.”

“So what’s your theory?”

“Just a working theory, then. Not enough to talk about yet.”

She shook her head but let it go. “And what happens when you get the truth? Let’s say you crack this thing wide open—what then?”

It was an easy answer.

“Then I publish,” he said. “That’s how it works.”

“Even if it’s dangerous?”

“I’ve done dangerous before.”

Something in her expression shifted. The conversation wasn’t about the investigation anymore.

“Yeah?” she said, watching him. “How dangerous?”

“That’s classified, Commander,” he said. “You know what they say: If I told you, I’d have to…”

His voice trailed.

“Kill me?”

It made him shudder. He didn’t think she noticed.

“There’s time to discuss Leslie and her mysterious stolen file later,” he said, eager to change the course of the conversation. “Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about yourself. How does a midwest girl like yourself grow up to be the Face of NASA?”

Despite Victoria’s high profile, Flynn got the sense she didn’t talk about herself much. Not really. Everything the world knew about her was packaged, curated—NASA’s golden girl, the fearless pilot, the first in line for whatever mission came next.

“This is the part where I say something inspiring, right?” she said. “Small-town girl, big dreams, worked hard, made it happen?”

“Is that the story you usually tell?”

“It works well enough for reporters and school children, my two usual audiences.”

Flynn leaned back in his chair. What started as an attempt to steer the conversation away from him was turning into genuine interest. He wanted to get to know her.

“I grew up in Indiana. Flat farmland, nothing but sky, the kind of place that wound up in John Mellencamp lyrics,” she said. “My dad worked in manufacturing, my mom taught middle school science. They weren’t astronauts, they weren’t engineers, but Mom used to bring home these old NASA lesson kits—big binders with pictures of the space shuttle, mission patches, profiles of the astronauts, the whole thing. I used to flip through them at the kitchen table while she graded papers.”

Flynn could see it. A kid sitting at the table, eyes wide, tracing the outlines of a launch sequence diagram with a pencil.

“So it started young,” he said.

She nodded. “I told everyone I was going to fly. No one believed me. Not in that town. The closest most people got to flying was watching crop dusters pass overhead.”

“But you made it happen.”

“Yeah. But it wasn’t easy.”

That meant something. Flynn didn’t push.

“I wasn’t some gifted kid. I wasn’t a natural. I had to work for everything—grades, training, flight school. And even when I was good, I had to prove it. Over and over again. Every base, every boat, every squadron, whenever I stepped into a room full of men who’d already decided I wasn’t worth listening to.”

She met his gaze. “So I worked twice as hard. I got twice as good. And eventually, they had to listen.”

Flynn didn’t doubt it. He was enjoying himself listening to her talk, watching her face light up.

“So the Navy came first,” he said.

She nodded. “I went to Purdue on an ROTC scholarship, then straight to flight school. Got my wings, went to the fleet, and ended up flying Super Hornets off the USS Abraham Lincoln.”

“F/A-18E or F?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You know the difference?”

Flynn shrugged. “I try to keep up. I was in the Air Force but went in a different direction before I ever had the chance to get into a cockpit. But I love planes. Always have.”

She looked impressed. “E-model, mostly. Some time in the F when I was training new guys. Did a couple of deployments, saw some action, did a tour as a flight instructor. That’s where NASA found me.”

“Handpicked?”

“More like a good record at the right time,” she said. “The application pool was smaller than usual, and they needed a new test pilot. I made the shortlist, passed the selection process, and that was it. I went from launching off a carrier deck to running flight sims here at Johnson. Spent some time at Kennedy as well. But Houston’s been home for a while now.”

Flynn studied her. “You miss it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Then: “Flying? Yeah. Every day.”

He caught the way her fingers twitched slightly on her glass, as if her body still wanted to be in the cockpit, still wanted to feel the throttle in her hand.

“But NASA was always the plan,” he said.

She hesitated. “The idea of it was. But people like me didn’t get there. Not really. I got lucky. Right mission commander, right flight record, right moment when someone was watching. I made the shortlist for astronaut training, and once I was in, I never gave them a reason to cut me.”

Flynn watched her, reading between the lines. She talked about it like a mission, like something that had required strategy, precision, and discipline. Not like it had been a dream come true.

“You’re making it sound like you didn’t enjoy it,” he said.

“Don’t get me wrong, I loved flying,” she said. “I loved the work. But the higher you go, the more the job changes. You stop being a pilot and start being a symbol. A spokesperson. The Face of NASA.”

There was weight in her voice.

“You hate it,” he said.

“I don’t hate it. I just… I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

Flynn nodded slowly. He understood. More than she knew.

She studied him across the table. “Your turn.”

Flynn exhaled through his nose. He should have seen that coming.

She was still watching him, waiting. She wasn’t going to push. But she wasn’t going to let him off the hook, either.

“You don’t want to hear that story,” he said.

“Try me.”

She’d opened up to him, and now he felt obligated to do the same. No, that wasn’t right. He actually wanted to talk to her. He needed to tell someone, and he wanted it to be her.

“About a year ago. A different investigation,” he said. “Different conspiracy. Only this time, it wasn’t just files and buried records. There was a guy. A bad one. Powerful, dangerous. Thought because he had money he could do whatever he wanted.”

Victoria’s eyes were fixed on him. He couldn’t meet her gaze directly but he kept talking.

“I found him. He almost killed a very talented FBI agent, someone I call a friend. He got away that day. So after a time I found him again.”

The words sat between them, heavy.

“You killed him.” It wasn’t a question.

Flynn raised his eyes to meet hers.

Victoria didn’t react at first. No shock, no judgment. Just silence. Then, finally: “And what did that feel like?”

Flynn didn’t answer right away. He replayed the incident in his head the day he’d killed a man, who was in hiding after a scheme that involved mind control experiments on U.S. military personnel. “Like finishing something that needed to be finished.”

She studied him, searching for something in his face. “You lose any sleep over it?”

“Not for him,” he said.

“But for you.”

He wasn’t sure why he had told her, why it had come so easily. Maybe because she hadn’t flinched. Maybe because she was too calm about it.

“He wasn’t the first person I killed,” Flynn said. “I mean you know what I was, who I worked for. It was my job. Sometimes it was a mission: go here, eliminate this target. Often it was a mission gone sideways, because they all do, and I had to react in self-defense. It was either them or me, and Uncle Sam spent a lot of time and money to give me the tools to make sure it was them.”

Victoria just listened, her face not showing any sign of horror or judgment.

Flynn continued, “But that last time. It was different. I wasn’t on a mission. I wasn’t even employed by the government anymore. I was a civilian. I wasn’t in danger. I wasn’t fighting to protect myself. I used my skills to track a man who didn’t want to be found, and I killed him in cold blood in his own house. It could easily be considered murder, and I can’t say anything to justify it.”

“But you said he was bad,” she said. “Dangerous. Think of the people you may have saved.”

“I didn’t do it to save anyone,” Flynn said.

“Then why?”

“Because I was pissed. Because he tried to kill people I care about. Because he got away. Because I couldn’t finish the job when it mattered.”

Victoria reached out and put her hand on his. She didn’t say anything, but her touch was what he needed. He’d unburdened himself to another person and she didn’t judge him.

“I lost someone over it,” he said. “A good woman. I don’t blame her for leaving. I couldn’t tell her what I’d done, and we stopped being able to talk about anything important.”

“Why did you tell me?” she asked.

He looked down at the table and shook his head. “I don’t know. It just felt like time, I suppose.”

“I’m glad you did, Flynn,” she said. “I mean that. Thank you for opening up.”

He pulled his hand away from hers.

“Anyway, that’s when I knew I was done,” he said. “I lost a step. And I was ready to walk away. Retire to my riverboat and put the conspiracy theories and investigations behind me. Live a simpler life.”

Victoria didn’t speak right away. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge.

“And yet, here you are,” she finally said.

Flynn smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess I got bored.”

They looked at one another for a long moment that should’ve been uncomfortable but wasn’t. There was something unspoken between them now, something unresolved but acknowledged.

Then, she pushed back from the table and stood. “Alright, Flynn. It’s late. I’m calling it. You get the couch.”

“So I’ve heard,” he said.

“Three times if my count is correct.”

Flynn didn’t argue. He just watched her disappear down the hallway, leaving him alone in the dimly lit room. He gave serious thought to following her, even wondered if a part of her wished he would. But he stayed put, discretion always being the better part of valor.

He stretched out on the couch, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He knew he should be thinking about the case. About what Leslie knew and where she was off to. About what he needed to do next.

Instead, he was thinking about her.

She hadn’t flinched.

And he wasn’t sure what that meant.

12

JOHNSON SPACE CENTER, HOUSTON

Flynn adjusted the security badge clipped to the white lab coat, both of which Victoria had supplied, then glanced at his watch.

Victoria had told him about the fire alarm test that occurred at work. The drill was routine, but the sirens were ear-splitting—designed to penetrate noise-canceling headsets and drown out even jet engines. Most employees left the building early, desperate to avoid the piercing shriek and flashing emergency lights that made any concentration impossible. During the alarm, safety crews would scour the building as if it were a real emergency. It would give Flynn less than ten minutes to get in, find something useful and get out.

Flynn had studied and memorized the security rotation and learned how maintenance performed fire safety sweeps. People underestimated how much information you could get simply by paying attention—Flynn had mastered it long ago.

The front door opened, and a flood of scientists, researchers, and other NASA personnel exited Building 31.

Right on schedule.

Flynn hurried toward the open door, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, navigating against the stream of technicians and researchers hurrying past. He slipped inside, sure to avoid eye contact with anyone coming out.

The crowd thinned, and the hallway was all but empty. Ahead, he spotted the security door to the archive room. A guard was stepping out, focusing more on evacuating the building than worrying about a random lab rat in the hallway. Flynn lowered his head, turned slightly, and passed by unnoticed, slipping silently through the doorway before it closed behind him.

He approached the sealed entrance to the archive storage room, badge in hand. The badge belonged to Dr. Marcus Chen—Victoria didn’t tell him how she got it, and Flynn didn’t ask. It was a risky move. Chen could notice at any moment that his badge was missing, triggering an alert that would end Flynn’s investigation immediately. Victoria had said not to worry; Chen was infamous for misplacing his badge. It was unlikely that he’d want to alert anyone to the fact that he’d done it again. She’d slip into his office and slide the card under his desk. He’d find it sooner or later.

Flynn moved toward the door, timing his approach to match the tail end of the crowd exiting the room. He swiped Chen’s card too quickly across the scanner, causing it to shriek—a red error code flashed.

The guard at the door straightened, looking Flynn’s way. Flynn raised the badge toward the guard, angling it in such a way that caused a glare across its laminated white surface while his fingers carefully covered Chen’s name and photo.

“I’m new. Dr. Steve Harris,” Flynn said, trying to look apologetic. “Third time today I’ve had an issue with a door.”

The guard hesitated, studying Flynn’s face. Flynn kept his expression neutral, meeting the man’s eyes without flinching. The moment lingered, seconds stretching out for an uncomfortable silence as the guard eyed him.

“Try it again,” the guard said.

Flynn scanned again, deliberately repeating his clumsy swipe. Another flash of red. He tried once more—error.

The guard hesitated for only a moment, clearly weighing procedure against inconvenience. Finally, with a nod, he pressed a button beneath his desk. The scanner flashed green, and the door clicked open.

“No worries, Dr. Harris,” he said. “Welcome to Johnson.”

Flynn thanked the young man and stepped through the doorway without looking back.

Inside, Flynn moved with urgency, reading labels, following a mental map he’d pieced together from floor plans and maintenance logs. He knew exactly what he was looking for—records from early 1969, specifically those marked for restricted or classified access. They would be tucked away, possibly in a secure cabinet or locked container. He didn’t have long to look.

The only sound was the low hum of air conditioning. Flynn ran his fingers along the folders on the shelves—old blueprints, satellite logs, technical reports—until he finally spotted a locked drawer labeled “1968-1970 | Classified Projects.”

This is it.

He checked his watch again—less than two minutes before the fire alarm. From his pocket, he pulled out a small tension wrench and lock-picking tool he’d had custom-made years ago. CIA operatives weren’t exactly trained burglars, but improvisation came with the territory.

Flynn manipulated the lock like a pro, counting the seconds in his head. He could practically hear his grandfather’s voice from childhood fishing trips—“Patience, James. Move too quickly and you’ll lose it.”

The lock popped open, and Flynn pulled the drawer free. Rows of yellowing files waited inside, neatly organized by date. His fingertips brushed across labels—names, project numbers, dates. He picked one folder, then another, quickly scanning for keywords.

Nothing. He moved deeper into the drawer. Then he heard footsteps echo from outside the hallway, followed by faint voices.

Flynn went still.

“—shouldn’t take long. Just checking the vents.”

Two maintenance workers. Flynn glanced toward the door. If they spotted the unlocked drawer or saw him, it was over. Flynn quickly removed a thick file from the very back and slipped it into the leather briefcase he’d brought with him. He eased the drawer closed, pressing until the lock clicked securely.

The voices stopped just outside the door.

Flynn eased open another drawer—more project numbers, code names, and dates carefully organized. As he flipped through, a folder near the back caught his eye. The tab read simply: Cyclops – Stage B (Restricted).

Cyclops. The word had stuck in his memory ever since Bill Tanner had muttered it at the nursing home. He snapped more photos, realizing he was out of time. But he was sure he’d found something important.

“This one looks good,” called a voice.

Flynn darted silently between shelves and slid into the next aisle just as the entrance beeped open.

“Yeah, this one, too,” another worker said. “Like always.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said the first guy. “We gotta check them all. You know how it goes.”

Flynn heard their footsteps move closer to his row, then pause.

He pressed himself tightly against the metal shelves, barely breathing. He’d planned everything down to the last second. If the fire alarm drill began right now, they’d leave the room, and he’d slip out unnoticed. But if it was delayed…

“What’s that?” one of the men said.

Flynn didn’t move.

The second man said, “What?”

“I thought I heard something⁠—“

A shrill alarm ripped through the building, echoing off the walls, startling the workers. Flynn silently exhaled as one of them groaned.

“There it is,” one worker said. “Damn, that’s loud! Let’s finish this later.”

Flynn stayed motionless, giving them time to vacate the area. He counted five more seconds then slipped from behind the shelves and hurried out into the corridor.

He stepped into the hallway, further assaulted by the piercing shriek of the fire alarm, which seemed somehow louder out here. Red warning lights flashed a rhythm along the walls, turning the hallway into a scene of disorienting chaos. A few remaining employees hurried toward the exits, hands pressed tightly over their ears, faces twisted in irritation or pain, each no doubt regretting their decision to not leave prior to the alarm test.

Flynn joined the flow, trying not to wince as the relentless alarm reverberated in his ears. Midway through the corridor, he spotted a security guard grimacing beneath one of the blaring sirens. The guard waved him by, barely registering Flynn’s face amid the noise and flashing lights.

Flynn pushed through the exit doors seconds later. The sudden quiet outside stood in stark contrast to the pulsating screeches emitted by the alarm system.

Only after he’d cleared the building and was some distance away did Flynn let out a deep breath, allowing himself a genuine grin. He had enough to work with—he just had to put the pieces together.

13

HOUSTON, TEXAS

Flynn sat alone in his favorite booth at the back table of The Astronaut Diner, flipping slowly through old NASA photographs he’d just swiped from Building 31. He had spent the better part of the afternoon buried in documents, coffee cups, and empty plates scattered across the table. He pulled the scan of Sam Harlan’s photo up on his iPad and laid it next to one he’d just acquired.

Sam Harlan’s photo showed Neil Armstrong posing next to Harlan’s grandfather on a soundstage that mimicked the moon’s surface. The astronaut’s visor was up; his face was clearly visible.

The new photo from Building 31 caught his attention right away. It was Armstrong again, this time alone, standing next to the American flag on the moon, stars behind him. A familiar photo for all Americans.

Except it wasn’t. It was from a slightly different angle than all the ones Flynn had grown up with. There were, no doubt, a slew of photos that NASA never made public. They chose the best ones, and those are the ones that became iconic images.

But this photo was different—sharper. The composition, the lighting—it wasn’t a documentary photo taken by a fellow astronaut. It was almost artistic.

He took another file from his briefcase: a lengthy equipment manifest dated April 18, 1969—two months before Apollo 11’s historic flight.

At first, nothing stood out. The list was typical NASA bureaucracy: cameras, training suits, spare helmets. But halfway down the page, a handwritten note in the margins caught his eye.

Cyclops—Stage B—Restricted Access

He leaned in closer. Cyclops again. The same mysterious project Bill Tanner had rambled about in the nursing home.

Flynn looked at the photo once again.

He leaned in, peering closely at the visor. Something was reflecting off the shield that masked Armstrong’s face.

Flynn’s pulse quickened.

He took a picture of the photo with his phone and then zoomed in tight. He couldn’t be 100 percent sure but he was almost certain he was looking at the reflection of camera rigging and even a production slate someone had carelessly left resting against one of the tripod legs. Flynn could barely read the lettering:

CY-B: Cyclops—New Mexico, 1969

Flynn felt a surge of adrenaline.

It was the kind of discovery he loved the most—small but clear, a detail hidden for decades right under everyone’s nose. It didn’t prove the moon landing had been faked, but it was undeniable proof NASA had staged carefully produced simulations of the lunar surface, using equipment the public knew nothing about.

This meant Cyclops wasn’t just another training program. It was secretive, hidden even from NASA’s own people.

He leaned back, a deep satisfaction filling him. He’d trusted his instincts, and they’d led him exactly where he needed to be. He was close—close enough now that if he pushed just a little harder, the whole story would break open.

Flynn finished his coffee, left a generous tip on the table, and gathered his things. He had calls to make, questions to ask. He would start by figuring out exactly what Cyclops was—and why NASA had been so desperate to bury it.

14

FLORIDA’S SPACE COAST

Leslie Vanderwahl stepped out of the rental car and stretched her legs. She hated early flights, but it was the only way to get from Houston to Florida without wasting a full day. She’d landed in Orlando that morning, grabbed her bag, and drove east on State Route 528 to US Highway 1. Less than an hour later, she was parked outside a modest house a few miles south of Kennedy Space Center, watching the warped wooden porch and the overgrown weeds swallowing the front steps.

Robert Harkness had worked for NASA in the late sixties as a logistics coordinator for Apollo training exercises. On paper, his job had been mundane—tracking equipment, overseeing supply chains, making sure astronauts had what they needed before launch.

Harkness was an old man—mid-eighties, at least—but from the way he’d spoken on the phone three days ago, his mind was still sharp. His voice had been gruff but steady, carrying the kind of authority that never quite fades, even decades after leaving the job.

Leslie found his name in an old procurement file attached to a logistical operation tied to Apollo-era training. He’d worked for NASA at a time when things were moving fast—missions stacked back to back, deadlines closing in, pressure mounting to keep pace with the Soviets. Harkness hadn’t been front and center like the astronauts or flight directors, but he’d been close enough to know how things really worked behind the scenes.

When she first called, he had been cautious but not dismissive. He hadn’t hung up on her as so many potential sources had over the years. He’d listened. That alone made her optimistic.

She had asked about a 1969 NASA file she’s gotten from Sam Harlan—one that mentioned specialized staging materials and camera rigs being sent to a site in New Mexico. There were no training records attached, no corresponding mission documentation. It didn’t make sense.

Harkness hesitated for just a second before saying, “I don’t talk about that stuff anymore.”

That hesitation had been enough. Leslie had pushed, asking what “that stuff” meant, but he’d shut her down, mumbling something about being too old for this kind of thing. Then he told her to call back in a few days.

That was before she got into Building 31.

Before she found the sealed archive folder marked with his name.

Leslie had only needed a few minutes. While Flynn and Victoria were busy getting cozy over a display case, their cutesy little back-and-forth making them oblivious to her and everything else in the room, she had slipped away, moving fast but casually—like she belonged. The archive shelves weren’t exactly under lock and key, but they were deep enough in the room that no one was paying attention. A thick manila folder, marked for internal review and stamped with a date from February 1969, had caught her eye. She didn’t have time to skim it, but the name on the tab—Harkness, R.—was enough. She slid it into her bag, exhaled like she hadn’t just committed a federal offense, and rejoined the others before anyone noticed.

She’d flipped through the stolen file, scanning page after page of logistics memos from 1969. All of them were tied to Apollo 11, all referencing something called Cyclops. The language was dry, bureaucratic, deliberately vague—staging logistics, special equipment handling, non-standard transportation procedures. Nothing spelled out what Cyclops actually was, but it was clear that whatever NASA had moved through Harkness’s department hadn’t followed standard protocol. She kept the file secret from Flynn. He was honing in on her story, and she knew this file was a big piece of the puzzle. He seemed more interested in flirting with Princess Astronaut anyway. The man was past his prime. It was her turn.

Leslie needed someone who could translate the document, someone to fill in the blanks. Someone who was there.

That someone was Harkness.

Three days after their first call, he didn’t pick up the phone. So she got on a plane. Drove straight from the airport. Walked up to his door uninvited. If Harkness wanted to shut her out, he was going to have to do it to her face.

She stepped out of the car and slung her bag over her shoulder, the Florida humidity wrapping around her like a warm, damp blanket. The house was small nondescript, the kind of place a man might retire to when he was ready to be forgotten. She knocked, and a dog barked somewhere inside.

After a long pause, the door cracked open, and Harkness squinted out at her. He had the look of a man who had once been solidly built, but time had worn him down, carving out the edges like years of wind over stone. His shoulders had hunched, and his skin had that weathered, papery look of old age, but his eyes were sharp—sharp enough that Leslie knew she wasn’t likely to push him around.

She introduced herself.

“I told you,” he rasped, “I don’t do interviews.”

Leslie smiled, bright and unfazed. “You told me three days ago you’d talk.”

“That was before I thought better of it,” he said.

His voice still carried weight, but there was something else under it now. A hint of unease. Leslie leaned against the doorframe, her expression not changing.

“What changed?” she asked.

Harkness’s fingers tightened on the edge of the door, but the old man said nothing.

“Look, I’m not here to waste your time,” Leslie said. “I just have a few questions. You worked logistics for Apollo 11—specifically training exercises. That’s all I want to talk about.”

“Miss Vanderwahl, you don’t want to go digging around in things that don’t concern you.”

“You wouldn’t be this nervous if it didn’t matter.”

He glanced past her, scanning the street. Leslie recognized the look. Paranoia. He was afraid.

She pressed. “What happened in New Mexico in 1969?”

Harkness held his expression, but she saw something flicker behind his eyes—not shock, but recognition.

“I have no idea,” he said.

The door started to close. Leslie slid her foot into the gap, happy she’d bought a pair of cowboy boots during her brief stay in Texas.

“I have records, Mr. Harkness,” she said. “I pulled your name from a file in NASA’s archives—logistics memos, procurement orders, and one in particular from February 1969. A shipment of specialized camera rigs and backdrop materials sent to a site in New Mexico. No attached Apollo 11 training records, no mission designation. Just a dead-end paper trail that someone never expected anyone to find. But I did.”

Harkness had the look of a man trying to keep his temper in check.

“You’re chasing ghosts,” he said. “You think every missing invoice is some big conspiracy? We had clerks back then who didn’t know what they were doing. Shit got lost all the time.”

“Tell me about Cyclops,” she said, getting right to it, her patience wearing thin.

Harkness’s breath hitched. Just for a second. A tiny, involuntary pause. The man’s knuckles went white on the doorframe.

“That facility was real, wasn’t it?” Leslie continued. “A soundstage in the desert.”

Harkness swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“I believe you do, Mr. Harkness.”

Barely above a whisper, Harkness said, “You need to leave.”

She didn’t move.

Harkness’s face hardened. “You’re a smart girl,” he said. “Let this go.”

The door slammed shut. Leslie didn’t move.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. She had expected resistance, deflection, maybe even anger—but not that. Not the quiet, brittle fear in Harkness’s voice. That wasn’t a man shutting down a reporter. That was a man protecting himself. And her.

She glanced back at the house. Behind the door, she imagined Harkness standing just out of sight, breathing hard, hands braced against the wall like he’d just dodged a bullet.

Not a denial. A warning.

She turned and walked back to her car, her breath coming fast, her mind already moving ahead. He knew something. Maybe not everything, but enough to be afraid.

She slid into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel. She was onto something. And Flynn sure as hell wasn’t getting to it first.

15

EASTERN INDIANA

Viper struggled to see beneath the night sky roiling with dark clouds. The only light came from the compound up ahead—a cluster of buildings nestled in rural Indiana and the glow of lanterns flickering through their windows.

Viper crouched behind a fallen tree at the edge of the woods, his rifle steady against his shoulder. His team was spread out—sixteen shadowy figures moving in the dark, divided into four squads of four highly trained soldiers.

Honda knelt beside him, eyes scanning the compound through night-vision goggles. Slugger and Jedi were posted farther down the tree line, silent, waiting.

The order was Viper’s to give.

He keyed the mic attached to his helmet. “Time to move in.”

The ghosts approached the buildings in silence, slipping unseen in the darkness across the open ground.

Viper’s earpiece crackled. “In position,” said Slugger, running point.

“Execute.”

Suppressors snapped as the first wave of ASP operatives took down the sentries near the gate. Bodies dropped before alarms could be raised.

Then the night exploded.

Flashbangs arced over fences and through windows, bursting white-hot as doors were kicked in.

Viper vaulted over a low fence and sprinted toward the main house, Honda on his flank. The compound erupted in chaos. Confused and frightened figures shouted and screamed as they scrambled inside the buildings.

Viper heard Slugger’s heavy boots on gravel. Jedi called out as his squad cleared the perimeter.

Honda reached the back door first, slamming the butt of his rifle into the lock. The door buckled and swung open. Slugger charged in first, as always.

Inside, a man staggered into the hallway, his hands up, mouth opening to speak. Slugger put two rounds into his chest. He dropped without a sound.

Up ahead, a door burst open. A figure ran—no weapon, just desperation. Jedi lifted his rifle and fired. The man collapsed.

A shot rang out from the next room. Not ASP—a shotgun blast, too close. Slugger barked over the radio, “We got an armed hostile!”

Two suppressed shots.

Jedi’s voice followed. “Hostile down.”

Viper moved into the main gathering space—a wide-open room littered with wooden chairs and old rugs. People huddled in the corners, wide-eyed, hands raised.

“Where’s your weapons?” Viper barked, sweeping his rifle across the group.

No one spoke. He scanned the room—no rifles stacked against the walls, no crates of ammunition. The supposed “militant compound” looked more like a communal shelter.

Honda’s voice cut in. “Boss, we got a problem.”

Viper turned. Honda was at the entrance to a side room, his face pale, his rifle lowered. Viper strode over and looked inside.

A pair of bunk beds. A low bookshelf packed with dog-eared novels. And in the far corner, a makeshift crib.

A child’s face peered out from under a blanket, wide-eyed, trembling.

Viper’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t a damn terrorist camp.

A scream erupted from the front of the house, followed by gunfire. Slugger’s voice came in sharp. “They’re running—what do we do?”

Viper spoke into his mic. “Command, looks like we got bad intel,” he said. “I’m looking at a room full of civilians, including women and kids.”

A pause. Viper stared at the faces of the trembling people in the room before glancing at his wide-eyed operatives, who were never rattled by anything. But this was something they’d not seen before.

Then command crackled over the radio.

“No witnesses.”

A muscle involuntarily flexed Viper’s jaw. He looked back into the bunk room. Honda hadn’t moved, his knuckles white around his rifle.

Viper’s voice was flat. “Clear it.”

Honda didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The order had been given. And no one disobeyed ASP.

Outside, more gunfire erupted. Jedi’s rifle snapped in short, controlled bursts. Slugger moved up the stairs, kicking open doors, taking out anyone inside.

Viper stepped into the hallway as another civilian bolted for the exit. He didn’t even lift his weapon. The man didn’t make it past the threshold before a burst from outside cut him down.

It was over in minutes.

Viper stood in the wreckage, listening to the last echoes of gunfire fade into the night. Honda exited the side room, his face blank, his hands steady. But his knuckles still pale.

Jedi and Slugger rejoined them near the main doors. Jedi let out a breath, looking over the bodies lying on the ground and slumped against the walls. “What was that?” he muttered.

Viper said nothing. None of the alleged terrorists even reached for weapons. It had been like target practice.

He slung his rifle over his shoulder, giving one last glance toward the bunk room doorway. Then he stepped outside into the cold night air, leaving the silence behind him.

The American News Network studio gleamed under the bright lights, its backdrop a massive digital display of the American flag waving in slow motion. The anchor sat behind a sleek glass desk, his expression sober but triumphant. The camera’s red light blinked, and he leaned forward slightly, voice steady, authoritative.

“Tonight, we bring you breaking news of another major victory in the fight against domestic terrorism,” he said. “Overnight, elite tactical teams from the Advanced Strike Protocol executed a precision raid on a heavily armed extremist compound in rural Indiana, neutralizing a dangerous threat before it could strike.”

Behind him, the screen shifted to drone footage—a smoldering compound, tactical vehicles parked in formation, figures in dark gear moving efficiently through the wreckage. A few bodies, pixelated for broadcast, lay in the dirt.

The anchor continued: “Sources close to the operation confirm that this cell had been planning large-scale attacks across the Midwest, targeting vital infrastructure and law enforcement personnel. Intelligence officials say this raid may have prevented a catastrophe. Thanks to ASP, these radicals have been stopped in their tracks.”

The camera cut to a split-screen panel, with the handsome anchor on one side and more footage of the raid’s aftermath on the other.

“Finally some true, decisive leadership,” the anchor said. “These men and women in ASP are doing the hard work, the dirty work, that keeps Americans safe. And yet—there are still those in Washington who want to question operations like this. Why? Who are they really protecting?”

The chyron drifted across the bottom of the screen:

ASP STRIKES AGAINST TERROR – BUT WHO WILL DEFEND THEM IN D.C.?

The anchor turned back to the camera, voice firm.

“Make no mistake—this wasn’t just a raid. It was a message,” he said. “The enemies of this country will not be allowed to spread their poison unchecked. And as long as ASP is out there, as long as brave men and women are willing to do what needs to be done, America will remain strong.”

He paused for effect, letting his words settle.

“Coming up—we’ll speak with Senator Quentin Danbury, one of the few voices in Washington with the courage to stand up for ASP and the mission to keep America safe. Plus—why are some media outlets refusing to cover this raid? What are they trying to hide? Stay with us.”

The screen faded to black before a slick montage of fighter jets, ASP operators in full gear, and an American flag rippling in the wind took over as the network’s theme swelled into the commercial break.

16

NEW MEXICO

Leslie Vanderwahl pulled off Route 380, gravel crunching beneath her tires as she rolled toward a ramshackle building tucked along the edge of the New Mexico desert. A sun-worn sign, barely legible, proclaimed: “Roscoe’s Antiques.”

She shielded her eyes against the blinding sun, sizing up the junk shop. Rusty signs advertising defunct oil companies leaned against walls covered in peeling paint. Antique farm equipment, broken rocking chairs, and crates overflowing with scrap metal littered the porch. Everything baking beneath the desert sun.

Inside, the shop was cool, shaded, and thick with the scent of rust, leather, and motor oil. Leslie glanced around, taking stock of the endless clutter—stacks of vintage magazines, dusty radios, a battered jukebox, and what appeared to be an authentic WW2-era bomb casing propped in the corner.

A man emerged from behind a counter piled high with yellowed newspapers and random machine parts. He had dark, sun-weathered skin and a battered black ball cap pulled low over sharp eyes. He was lean and wiry, late-thirties maybe, with a scar slicing through his left eyebrow and down his cheekbone, a feature that failed to completely mar what was otherwise a handsome, if not dirty, face. Leslie imagined he was the kind of man who spent his days scouring the desert for relics to sell to tourists—and his nights cheating at cards—or worse.

“Afternoon,” he said. His voice was rough, sanded down by years of desert air and Marlboros. “Looking for something in particular, Miss?”

Leslie faked a smile. “Leslie Vanderwaal,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m a journalist, writing a piece on local legends—abandoned military bases, government sites, buried treasures. Someone in Albuquerque said you’re the guy to talk to about that kind of thing.”

He leaned against the counter, examining her with piercing eyes. “You don’t look much like a journalist, Miss Leslie.”

She returned his stare. “That’s funny because you don’t look like an antiques dealer, Mr. Roscoe.”

He laughed and let the intensity of his gaze melt away. “Fair enough. Name’s Braggs, by the way—Wyatt Braggs. Roscoe’s dead, going on eight years now. I’ve been running shit ever since. People like the sign, so I ain’t changed it.”

“I see,” she said.

“See what?” Braggs said, the intense stare back as if she’d said something offensive.

She winced then gathered her composure and spoke clearly, “I mean I understand what you said—about Roscoe.”

Braggs lifted the bill of his cap up his forehead and then pulled it low across his brow. He looked at her again.

Leslie held up her phone to show him the Apollo soundstage photograph from Sam Harlan’s file. “Ever seen anything like this around here?”

His eyes flicked to the picture, then back to Leslie. He didn’t answer immediately, just crossed his arms over his chest and studied her with a careful, suspicious gaze. “What paper’d you say you write for again?”

She took a moment to gather herself. “I don’t write for a specific publication,” she said. “I’m a freelance journalist.”

Braggs scratched his chin. “Freelance journalist. That mean you sell your stories to the highest bidder?”

“It doesn’t exactly work that way,” she said.

“Not exactly.” It made him laugh. “What makes you interested in some old Hollywood bullshit in the middle of nowhere?”

“I like mysteries.”

Braggs reached for a battered coffee maker perched behind him and poured himself a cup without offering one to Leslie, for which she was grateful. He took a long sip, finally answering. “Hell, that ain’t no mystery.”

“You know the place I’m talking about?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’ve seen it.”

Leslie waited for Braggs elaborate.

“It’s way off-road, a good stretch into nowhere,” he said. “Government ran it back in the sixties—built a whole fake moon down there in the dirt, cameras, lights, fences, the whole shebang. Local boys used to sneak in after dark, mostly to scare each other. But nobody goes there now. It’s dead empty, nothin’ left worth takin’.”

“I’d still like to see it.”

Braggs leaned against the counter, watching her like he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at.

“Place ain’t easy to find, Miss,” he said. “And even if you get close, there’s private land all around. You’ll get chased off or shot before you can even pull out your little camera there.”

Leslie smiled, sensing his angle. “I can handle myself.”

“Maybe you can. But I ain’t just gonna send a nice lady like you wanderin’ out into the desert alone.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m good with directions,” she said. She placed a pair of twenty-dollar bills on the counter.

Braggs howled with laughter. “Oh, my Lord,” he said. “The girl has seen one too many movies. You trying to give me, what? Forty dollars? To give you some information? You think we’re on one of them cop shows? You’re the detective and I’m some downtown snitch gonna roll over for that?”

Leslie stood with her face growing hot from anger or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure which. But she would not be laughed at. She snatched the money from the counter and shoved it in her pocket.

“Fine,” she said. “You don’t want my money, then just give me the directions. I promise you I don’t need your damn help.”

Braggs went silent, the laughter cutting off as if someone flipped a switch. “Wasn’t an offer. You want to see that old moon base, then I’ll take you there. Otherwise… good luck.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s in it for you?”

Braggs gave a thin smile. “Let’s just call it curiosity. Gotta be a reason a city girl like you come all this way to look at that place. Maybe you’ll find somethin’ interesting, maybe you won’t. Either way, at least you’ll know how to get back here afterward.”

“I’m from Carlsbad,” she lied.

Braggs laughed at her again. “The hell you say. You got East Coast written all over you. Let me guess: New York City? Philly? Don’t tell me you’re from Boston?”

Leslie hesitated, assessing him. He might be useful, but she’d read about his type before—treasure hunters who’d offer help until they spotted something valuable. Then things turned ugly fast. She decided she was willing to take the risk. She couldn’t afford to lose this lead.

“Fine,” she said after a moment. “You drive your own vehicle. I’ll follow.”

His grin widened. “Don’t trust easy, do you?”

“Occupational hazard.”

He laughed, draining the last of his coffee and grabbing a battered denim jacket from the hook near the door before flipping the “open” sign to “closed.”

“Fair enough. Let’s get goin’, Miss Vanderwaal. Hope that rental car of yours can handle dirt roads.”

17

RURAL INDIANA

Ted Morton, the bulldog veteran investigative journalist from The Washington Post, stood on the scorched earth of what, according to the government, used to be a militia compound in eastern rural Indiana not far from the Ohio border. His boots crunched over shattered glass and debris as he surveyed the scene. The sun was climbing, casting sharp light over the carnage, but all he could feel was the chill of something deeply wrong.

The latest ASP raid had been over for hours, yet much of the scene remained locked down. Armed men dressed in the dark gray and black camo that identified them as ASP soldiers combed through the wreckage. At the same time, local law enforcement officers formed a perimeter around what had once been a communal gathering space. The cops looked to be out of the loop, likely conscripted to help with security, while ASP cleaned up its mess.

Morton moved among the outer edge of the compound past a burnt-out pickup, eyeing the bullet-riddled structures. A firefight had taken place here, no doubt. Spent shell casings littered the ground, and blood streaked the dirt. But the story didn’t add up. The official line? The Advanced Strike Protocol had taken out a high-level domestic terror cell before it could launch an attack. A decisive, preemptive strike. A military victory for the good guys.

But Morton had been around too many war zones—in Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, and Somalia, to name a few—and this had been no battlefield. It had been a shooting gallery, a massacre.

Morton circled the compound, staying where security allowed him to be until he spotted an opening near a collapsed section of fencing. A gap, just wide enough. He took a breath, checking his surroundings. It was the far end of the camp, and security was at its lightest. Twenty yards away, a police officer, looking like he’d rather be anywhere than here, leaned against a tree and gazed off into the forest—it was Morton’s best chance. He crouched low, pressing his body flat against the cool dirt, and slipped through the breach. The cop saw nothing. No alarms, no shouts. He was inside the compound.

Morton crouched near a collapsed section of a wall that used to enclose a small outbuilding. He nudged a charred piece of plywood aside. His gut twisted. Beneath the plywood, a small hand jutted out, blackened and still. It was too small.

The official statement made no mention of women and children.

He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.

Morton moved deeper in, staying silent but examining every detail. Thirty years in war zones had taught him what a battlefield looked like. This wasn’t one. And that made his stomach turn.

The official report claimed ASP had engaged a terrorist cell in a fierce firefight. But where were the spent casings from return fire? Where were the defensive positions? The bullet holes in the walls all pointed one direction—inward.

He made his way along the outer wall of a short cement block building, keeping himself out of sight the best he could.

A noise made him freeze. Two ASP soldiers approached. Morton pivoted around a corner. He held his breath and pressed himself flat against the building until they passed, their dark uniforms blending with the shadows.

When he was confident they were gone, Morton moved toward the compound’s main house. The front entrance was locked down—taped off, guarded, a controlled perimeter. ASP had done their cleanup outside first, scrubbing away anything out in the open that might contradict the official account. But inside? Different story. Inside, they could take their time since no one could access the house.

Morton had to get in there. He scanned the area. Near the back of the house, two ASP soldiers unloaded metal evidence carts draped with dark tarps from an armored SUV. They weren’t in a rush—they weren’t expecting anyone to interfere.

Morton moved forward, keeping his head up and walking with confidence. It was an old reporter’s trick—act like you were supposed to be there and people would more times than not allow you to slip by. He crossed toward the cart, staying outside of the soldiers’ direct lines of sight. As one of them turned to check his radio, Morton grabbed the edge of one of the carts, ducked low, and slipped underneath the heavy tarp.

Seconds passed. It was dark and he could feel his own warm breath coming back at him in the cramped space.

The cart jerked forward.

The soldiers were wheeling it inside the house.

He felt the shift from uneven dirt to smooth flooring as the wheels bumped over the house’s threshold. The door closed behind them with a solid thud.

“Where’s this going?” one of them asked.

“Back room,” another voice answered. “Some techs are on their way to clean up. Nerds are always running behind.”

Morton kept perfectly still as the cart rolled deeper into the house. Then—a final stop.

The room was quiet. No voices. He counted five seconds, then ten. He lifted the tarp and peeked out. The two soldiers were gone.

Morton’s muscles ached from holding himself balled up under the tarp. He waited another beat, then lifted the edge just enough to peek out.

No one was there.

He slid out, moving slow, careful to keep the cart from rattling. His knees protested as he straightened. The back room was dim, the overhead fluorescents flickering in an unpredictable rhythm. Metal shelves lined the walls, packed with evidence boxes and bagged items—classified junk that ASP hadn’t yet cleared out.

Footsteps.

Morton tucked himself back under the tarp just as a soldier stepped in, whistling something tuneless. The man crossed to a shelf and started shifting boxes, taking his time.

Morton cradled his knees against his chest. His calf cramped, but he fought through it. The soldier kept whistling, oblivious.

Then Morton moved—just a fraction—to ease the strain. His elbow rustled the tarp.

The whistling stopped.

“Hello?” The soldier turned, boots scraping against the tile floor.

Morton didn’t breathe. His body went cold with fear. There was no telling what might happen if they found him. This operation was clearly off the books and not following any standard military or law-enforcement protocol.

The soldier’s radio crackled. “Team Two, we need some assistance out here.”

“Copy that,” the soldier said.

Morton heard the man’s footsteps pace toward the door.

He remained frozen as the footsteps stopped. For a few seconds, he heard nothing. The cramp in his leg grew more intense, and he gritted his teeth to fight through the pain. He heard a single step moving toward him.

A voice called from the hall. “Hey! You coming or what?”

“Yeah.” The boot sounded like it made a pivot away from the cart, and Morton heard the man leave the room and close the door behind him.

He told himself to stay still for another few seconds in case the man doubled back, but the pain in his calf was too much to bear, and Morton extended his leg out from under the tarp to relieve the cramp.

He stepped out, rubbed his lower leg with both hands, and scanned the room once more.

A utility room. Shelves, old filing cabinets, a catch-all space for things that didn’t belong anywhere else. The air was stale. Inside, the house remained eerily untouched—no splintered walls, overturned furniture, or signs of a gunfight. Everything was in its place.

And that was the first thing that struck him—how clean it was.

He scanned the floor. Almost no shell casings. No spent magazines. No stray bullet holes raking across walls from a chaotic exchange of fire.

Then he saw them.

The bodies had not yet been removed.

A man lay slumped near the hallway, facedown, a clean entry wound at the base of his skull. No rifle near him. No sign he had fired a shot or had even held a weapon.

Farther in, near the main living area, he found more. Several bodies, most lying close together, some tangled in what looked like an attempted retreat. No weapons beside them. No signs of a desperate last stand.

Near an overturned chair, bullet holes lined the back of the couch—not from suppression fire, but from execution-style shots. Whoever had been sitting there had never gotten up.

A dark smear of blood led to a locked bedroom door. Someone had tried to run.

Morton exhaled, fingers tightening around his phone. ASP didn’t storm this place expecting armed resistance. They were there for a slaughter.

In the kitchen, overturned bowls of half-eaten cereal still sat on the table. Whoever these people were, they hadn’t been ready for a fight. They hadn’t even finished breakfast.

Morton pulled out his notebook, jotting down details in the shorthand he’d developed over decades of fieldwork. No defensive positions. No return fire. No weapons cache. Nothing to suggest these people had been prepared for or expected any confrontation.

This wasn’t a militant compound. This was something else entirely. And someone wanted it wiped off the map.

A radio crackled nearby. Morton tucked his notebook away and slipped back into the shadows.

18

HOUSTON, TEXAS

When Flynn came into the townhouse, Victoria was on the couch wearing an oversized sweatshirt emblazoned with “US NAVY” in blue and yellow letters. She turned, and it was obvious she could tell he was excited because her face lit up when she looked at him.

“You found something,” she said.

“Oh, I found something, alright,” Flynn said. “A reflection in Armstrong’s visor.”

He showed her the image. She held his iPad and used two fingers to zoom in on the photo. She stared at it for a while, and her excitement waned.

“What does this mean?” she said. “They faked the moon landing?”

Flynn was in the kitchen reaching for two wine glasses. “What? Well, yeah, I guess,” he said. “I mean not necessarily. Where’s your wine?”

“I don’t know if I have any,” she said. “If that’s the case, that means everything we’ve been told was a lie.”

She set the iPad on the table and took a seat on the couch.

Flynn still scoured the kitchen for a bottle of anything.

“That ID card from Chen? Worked like a charm,” he said. “Got right past security. And boy did that fire alarm save my ass. That was your idea. You’re a genius, Commander Sloane. A real genius. We could’ve used you at Langley.”

The place was a collection of clutter. Everything he threw away seemed to sprout two more pieces of trash. How did she live like this?

Exasperated, Flynn said, “How can you not have any… How are we supposed to celebrate our⁠—“

He saw her on the couch. Her face was blank. He placed the empty glasses on the counter and went over to her.

“You okay?” he asked.

She said nothing.

He sat next to her and put his arm around her shoulder. “Victoria,” he said.

“Could they have really faked the moon landing?” she said, shaking her head and setting her jaw. “I can’t believe it, but I can’t deny what I’m looking at.”

“Whoa now,” Flynn said, drawing back. “We don’t know that.”

“But that photo⁠—“

“Shows nothing but an odd reflection,” he said. “It doesn’t mean the images we’ve all seen of astronauts on the moon aren’t real. We just now know that they shot these as well. We’re just not sure when or where. We have lots more investigating to do. But this is a good first step for us.”

She said, “If they staged even part of it, what else did they lie about?”

Flynn didn’t answer right away. He had to keep her focused on the story, not the implications. She’d spent her entire life obsessed with an institution that might not have been honest with her. If he let her dwell on thoughts of betrayal, she’d spiral. He had to keep her looking forward.

“That’s what we find out next,” he said. “We don’t assume anything yet. We just keep pulling threads.”

Her shoulders relaxed and the color returned to her face.

“So what’s the next thread?” she asked.

“Good question,” he said. “Fortunately, I have an idea where to start.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow.

“New Mexico.”

Her eyes narrowed. “White Sands?”

“Maybe,” Flynn said. “There’s a museum in Alamogordo that likely has some answers.”

Victoria looked at the screen, then at Flynn. “You think this was Cyclops?”

“Only one way to find out for sure.”

For a moment, she stared at him. And then she smiled—not a small, polite smile, but something real. Something dangerous. And, he liked it.

“We should leave tomorrow,” she said.

“Easy, Commander. You’re supposed to act like I’m dragging you into this, not the other way around.”

Her smile lingered, but her gaze shifted to his mouth.

It was the kind of moment where the world tilted just slightly. A shift in gravity neither of them acknowledged but neither could ignore.

Flynn leaned in to her. He was close enough to feel her breath against his skin. He placed his hand on her cheek. If he leaned in, just a little more…

Victoria didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

But neither did she press forward.

After a second, she reached up and gently held his wrist. He closed his eyes. She carefully pulled his hand away from her face and sat back.

“You still owe me a drink,” she said.

Flynn held her gaze for just a beat longer. “Guess we’ll have to celebrate in New Mexico.”

19

NEW MEXICO

The dirt road stretched endlessly into the New Mexico desert, the rental car’s tires kicking up a steady trail of dust. Leslie kept one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting her sunglasses against the blinding afternoon sun. Ahead of her, Wyatt Braggs’s beat-up truck rumbled along, its rusted frame rattling with every bump in the road.

She hadn’t liked the idea of following him to the middle of nowhere—too much trust, not enough control—but she needed him. He knew this place. And, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was just as interested in what they were about to find.

Braggs’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie he’d insisted she take. “Keep that thing steady, city girl. These roads eat tires for breakfast.”

Leslie grabbed the radio. “I’m doing just fine, Braggs.”

“Uh-huh. That Hyundai ain’t built for this terrain,” he said, nodding toward her rental car. “Wouldn’t want you breaking down before the fun starts.”

Before she could fire back, Braggs slowed his truck and pulled onto what barely passed as a side road—more of a faint trail winding toward the horizon. He stopped, climbed out, and stretched, waiting for Leslie to catch up.

She killed the engine and stepped out, boots grinding against packed dirt. She slipped her arms through the straps of a lightweight backpack. It held a thermos of water, but was otherwise empty in case she needed to carry evidence from the scene.

The landscape around them was barren—nothing but rolling hills, dry scrub, and the occasional weathered rock formation.

“This is it?” she asked.

Braggs took off his ball cap, wiped sweat from his brow, and nodded toward a ridge in the distance. “Over that rise, yeah. Old NASA site. Used to have a fence and everything, but the desert swallows things fast out here.”

Leslie studied him. Something was off. He was too relaxed, too casual. Like he was trying to act like this was just another day—but his body language betrayed him.

“You sure this is about some abandoned government site?” she asked. “Because you’ve been acting weird ever since we left town.”

Braggs grinned, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m a journalist.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe I don’t like being interviewed.”

Leslie folded her arms. “Then why’d you bring me out here, Braggs?”

He hesitated just a second too long. “Because I don’t trust you,” he admitted.

Leslie raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, you don’t trust me?”

“That’s right.” He popped the truck’s tailgate and grabbed a water bottle, taking a long swig before continuing. “This place? Been abandoned for decades. No reason anyone should give a damn about it. And yet, out of nowhere, you show up asking questions.” He gestured at her. “East Coast girl, pretending to be local. Not exactly subtle.”

Leslie narrowed her eyes. “I told you—I’m looking into NASA’s old projects.”

“Uh-huh.” He wiped his mouth and tossed the bottle back into the truck. “And what I wanna know is why your ‘NASA research’ led you straight to the one place I’ve been lookin’ for years.”

Leslie felt a flicker of realization. That was it.

“You’re not here for the site,” she said slowly. “You think there’s something underneath it.”

For the first time since she met him, Wyatt Braggs didn’t have a quick comeback.

“This isn’t about NASA at all, is it?”

Braggs smirked. “Doesn’t mean we both ain’t lookin’ for somethin’.”

She should’ve known. Braggs wasn’t just some desert scavenger—he was a hunter. And if he thought something of value was hidden at an old government facility, he wasn’t about to let some reporter waltz in and take what he’d spent years chasing.

Leslie sighed. “So, what now? You planning to ditch me in the desert?”

Braggs grinned. “Now, why would I do that? I might need you to help dig.”

He started walking toward the ridge, leaving Leslie to curse under her breath before following.

Whatever she had just stepped into, it was bigger than an abandoned NASA test site.

And for the first time since she started chasing this story, she wasn’t sure if she was the one doing the hunting—or if she was being hunted.

20

ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND

Admiral Barrow poured a fresh cup of coffee. The office was quiet except for the steady ticking of the brass clock on the wall. The dark wood paneling, mahogany furniture, and deep blue furnishings gave the room a sense of history and command. It had the feel of a captain’s quarters aboard an old warship, a deliberate choice.

Naval artifacts filled the space—framed photos of aircraft carriers cutting through open seas, plaques from past operations, commendations earned over decades of service. A painting of the USS Constitution dominated the wall behind his desk, a reminder of where it all started.

But amid the maritime ephemera, the piece that always seemed to gather the most attention was the photograph behind the desk. A younger Barrow, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, wearing a Navy Midshipmen football uniform with the number 47 emblazoned across his chest. He had been a force on the field, a relentless competitor. He was still in great shape and carried himself like an athlete, shoulders squared, movements economical, every motion controlled.

Today, though, he felt the weight of something pressing against him, heavier than any hit he’d ever taken on the field.

The office door opened without a knock. General Curtis Maddox didn’t need an invitation. He stepped inside, his presence filling the room with an energy that clashed against the stillness. He was built like a man who had spent a lifetime carrying the weight of command. His Army service uniform was crisp and featured four silver stars across each shoulder.

Barrow didn’t look up. He sipped his coffee and placed the cup on a blue coaster embossed with the academy’s insignia and let the silence settle between them before he made eye contact.

Maddox exhaled, glancing around the room as he closed the door behind him. His eyes lingered on the football photo for a second before shifting back to Barrow.

“You always were a stubborn bastard,” Maddox said.

“And you always talked too much,” Barrow said. “Still do.”

Maddox smirked, but the look in his eyes didn’t match the grin. He pulled out a chair across from Barrow’s desk but didn’t sit. Instead, he planted his hands on the back of it, leaning slightly forward.

“Well, we need to talk,” Maddox said.

Barrow gestured toward the coffee pot. “Help yourself.”

Maddox remained standing. He was studying Barrow, measuring him the way a field commander sized up an adversary across the battlefield. Barrow let him.

“You’ve been busy,” Maddox said.

Barrow took another sip. “I like to keep my schedule full.”

Maddox’s jaw shifted, a small tell that he was holding something back. “Indiana,” he said. “That was quite the operation.”

Barrow set his cup down, folding his hands on the desk. “Was it?”

“You tell me,” Maddox said, his voice still casual, but the pressure behind it was beginning to build. “No coordination with federal task forces. No prior briefing to the Joint Chiefs. No courtesy call to local LEOs. Just your ASP teams dropping in, wiping out an entire militia compound, and moving on like nothing happened.” He paused, watching Barrow’s reaction. “Hell of a thing.”

“It was a clean op,” Barrow said. “No friendly casualties. Mission accomplished. It doesn’t get any better than that. They’ve all been like that. My team is making the nation safer.”

“Clean? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Barrow shrugged. “What would you call it?”

Maddox let the question hang for a moment. He straightened, finally pulling out the chair and sitting across from Barrow.

“I’ve read the reports,” he said. “And I’ve seen the other reports. The ones that didn’t make it into the official briefings. The kind that gets buried under a pile of red tape before anyone asks the right questions.” He leaned in slightly. “What happened out there, Paul?”

Barrow didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. “I did my job. I made America safer. No different than what you did in Afghanistan and Iraq.”

Maddox shook his head, his fingers drumming once against the desk. “You and I both know that’s not what happened. And you sure as hell aren’t stupid enough to think people aren’t going to start digging.”

Barrow exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly in his chair. “People like you?”

Maddox didn’t answer right away. He let the question settle before giving the smallest nod. “People like me.”

Barrow picked up his coffee again, taking his time with another sip. “And what exactly do you think you’re going to find?”

Maddox didn’t break eye contact. “That depends. How far off the reservation are you planning to go?”

Barrow exhaled slowly, fingers drumming once against the surface of his desk. He had expected this conversation the moment he saw Maddox’s name on his schedule. The only question had been how direct Maddox would be.

Now he had his answer.

Barrow leaned back, keeping his expression calm, controlled. He wasn’t going to let Maddox dictate the rhythm of this exchange.

“You’ve been watching me,” Barrow said, making it a statement rather than a question.

Maddox gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable.

Barrow smirked. “And now you’re here, having a private chat instead of marching into a Joint Chiefs meeting and putting my name on the chopping block. Which tells me something.” He took a sip, let the pause linger. “You don’t have enough yet. Or you know I’m right.”

Maddox’s jaw tightened slightly. It was subtle, but Barrow had known the man too long not to see it.

“Paul,” Maddox said, voice measured, “you and I both know when something looks wrong. And this? This looks wrong.”

“The only thing wrong is that we spent too many years with our hands tied, watching threats build while Washington debated itself into paralysis.” He gestured toward the office around them. “We built this country on the backs of men who acted when it was needed, not when it was convenient.”

Maddox didn’t blink. “That’s what you think you’re doing? Acting when it’s needed?”

Barrow let out a quiet chuckle. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

Maddox studied him, searching. Barrow let him look. He wasn’t about to flinch.

“You keep running ASP like this,” Maddox said finally, “you’re going to have more than reporters and politicians knocking at your door.”

Barrow tilted his head, studying his visitor. He had known Maddox too long to believe this was just a conversation. This was a warning. A careful, tactical one, wrapped in the pretense of concern.

Maddox wasn’t just here for answers. He was here to measure how much trouble Barrow was worth.

Barrow smiled, just enough to show teeth. “Then I guess I’d better make sure they don’t find anything they don’t like.”

Maddox held his gaze for another long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Neither of them had said what they really meant. But they had both heard it anyway.

Barrow let the silence stretch, let Maddox sit with his own words. He wanted to see if the general would flinch first, if he would back off, soften the warning, show hesitation. He didn’t.

That meant Maddox had already made up his mind about him.

Barrow exhaled, slow and measured, pushing himself up from his chair and walking to the window. The Chesapeake Bay stretched out before him, calm and unbothered by the conversation happening inside his office. His reflection in the glass stared back at him—older than the man in the football photo, but no less certain of who he was.

“You always were the cautious one,” Barrow said, still watching the water. “It served you well, kept you in the game longer than most.” He turned, meeting Maddox’s gaze. “But the game is changing.”

Maddox straightened slightly, eyes narrowing, but remained quiet.

“The rules you’re so worried about? They don’t apply anymore,” Barrow continued. “Not to the people we’re up against. Not to the way wars are fought now.” He stepped closer to the desk, resting his hands against the polished wood. “You’ve seen it just as much as I have. The ones who adapt survive. The ones who hesitate don’t.”

Maddox’s jaw flexed, his posture still rigid. “And where exactly does that leave you, Paul?”

Barrow paused for a moment. He already knew Maddox wouldn’t like the answer.

“It leaves me ahead of the curve,” Barrow finally said.

Maddox shifted in his chair. “Then I’ll tell you this straight: people are watching, and they don’t like what they’re seeing. ASP doesn’t answer to oversight. That makes you dangerous.”

Barrow smirked. “I take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t.” Maddox stood, adjusting his uniform. “The last time we let a program run unchecked, it collapsed under its own weight. And when that happens, it’s never the politicians who take the fall. It’s men like you.”

Barrow didn’t respond, didn’t blink, just watched him.

Maddox stepped toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “This was your chance to pull back,” he said, his voice quieter now, more certain. “Next time, I won’t be coming alone.”

He left without waiting for a response.

Barrow sat back down, fingers drumming against the desk as he listened to Maddox’s boots fade down the hall. He glanced at the old photo behind him again, the younger version of himself looking out with the same confidence, the same unwavering certainty.

Maddox was wrong. He wasn’t going to fall. He was going to win.

Barrow stayed seated, listening to the muffled sound of the outer office door closing as Maddox left. The air felt heavier now, the scent of coffee lingering in a way that irritated him. He reached for the cup, but instead of drinking, he pushed it aside, suddenly uninterested.

He turned his chair slightly, looking at the old football photo behind him. His younger self stared back, all raw power and conviction, the kind of man who didn’t second-guess himself. That man had taken hits and gotten back up. That man had known how to play the long game.

Maddox thought he was issuing a warning. He thought he was in control.

But Barrow had learned long ago that control wasn’t about who issued the warnings. It was about who dictated the next move.

He reached into his desk, unlocking the second drawer and pulling out his secure phone. His fingers hovered over the keys for a moment before he typed out a single message.

Maddox is watching. I need a full assessment of exposure. Quietly.

He sent it and placed the phone back in the drawer, locking it again.

Maddox had been his friend once, but that didn’t mean Barrow could afford to let him dictate the terms. He wasn’t going to eliminate him—that would be reckless, too obvious—but there were other ways to neutralize a problem.

Barrow exhaled, smoothing his hands over the desk. Maddox thought he had the high ground. He was wrong.

Barrow leaned back in his chair, replaying the conversation in his mind. Maddox had shown his hand, revealing just enough to make it clear he wasn’t acting alone. There were others watching, waiting, measuring how far ASP would go before someone decided to pull the plug.

That was the part that irritated him most. They didn’t understand. They never had.

The same men who now whispered about oversight and accountability had once sent him into the darkest corners of the world to do the things they didn’t have the stomach for. And now, when he was doing what needed to be done, they were suddenly concerned about rules.

He pushed back from his desk and stood, moving to the window again.

Maddox wasn’t a fool. He wouldn’t have come here unless he thought he had leverage. But he had made one mistake—he still believed the system worked. That men like Barrow could be boxed in, slowed down, buried under bureaucracy. Barrow smirked. The system had never worked for men like him.

He turned back to his desk and reached for his phone again. This time, the message was different.

Prepare for the next phase. Full discretion. No missteps.

He sent it, then placed the phone down, pressing his fingertips against the desk. He could still feel the faint pulse of adrenaline in his veins, but his mind was clear.

Maddox had come here with a warning. Barrow had just given his response.

And now, the game would move faster.

21

HOUSTON, TEXAS

Disguised as an aviation security contractor, Alexei Volkov followed Victoria Sloane’s car to the airport. He parked a safe distance behind her and climbed out of his vehicle, neatly clipping his forged ID badge to his blazer.

Alexei stepped inside, moving through the crowds of travelers swarming the interior of George Bush Intercontinental Airport.

The name alone nearly made him twitch.

George Bush. George Herbert Walker Bush.

Alexei had been a young officer in the KGB when the Berlin Wall fell, when the Soviet Union collapsed like a rotten building under its own weight. And Bush—the elder one—had been at the center of it.

The Americans credited him as the mastermind of victory, the spymaster-turned-president who had outplayed Moscow in the grandest of chess games.

Alexei and his comrades at the time didn’t see it that way.

The USSR hadn’t fallen to any masterstroke of Western intelligence. It had rotted from within. The Americans simply had the sense to wait, to push in the right places and let gravity do the rest.

But that collapse had changed everything.

Alexei had been twenty years old in 1991, a fresh KGB recruit, trained to be a Cold War operative. He was supposed to infiltrate, destabilize, manipulate—the kind of work that took years to master, the kind of work that no longer mattered once the country he served ceased to exist.

Then came the SVR.

As the old system crumbled, Russia’s foreign intelligence agency rose from the wreckage of the KGB’s First Chief Directorate. Alexei adapted. He became something new, not an obsolete Cold War relic but a modern operative—an asset in the global espionage game.

For over two decades, he served Russia’s interests. Black operations. Clandestine missions. The kind of work that never made it into official reports. And then, seven years ago, he walked away.

Not defected. Not retired. Just disappeared.

There had been no dramatic exit, no farewell to Moscow. Just the quiet understanding that he had become more valuable outside the system than within it. That was the last time he worked for anyone but himself.

President Bush had played his role, of course. A Cold War operator to the very end. Alexei, a master spy, had to respect it, but now he imagined the former US President rolling over in his grave watching a former KGB officer strolling through an airport bearing his name, hunting an American astronaut and her ex-CIA friend. He couldn’t help but smile at the irony. But there was no time for nostalgia, no time to gloat.

Alexei approached a customer service kiosk, his movements casual, effortless.

The woman behind the counter barely glanced at him, distracted by the constant flow of travelers. That worked in his favor. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to suggest quiet authority.

“Passenger James Flynn,” he said with a bit of a southern American accent he’d honed to perfection over the years. “Can you page him? Tell him to report here, please. It’s urgent.”

The woman blinked, hands pausing over the keyboard. “What kind of⁠—“

Alexei was already turning away.

He didn’t need to explain himself. The security badge clipped to his chest was explanation enough. Someone working the customer service desk wasn’t going to ask questions. She would do what she was told.

By the time Alexei melted into the mass of travelers, the announcement rang out over the intercom.

“Passenger James Flynn, please report to the Airport Information Desk. Passenger James Flynn, Airport Information Desk.”

Alexei positioned himself near a seating area a safe distance from the information area and angled his body away from the counter while keeping his eyes on the periphery. Now, he just had to wait.

Minutes later, Flynn appeared.

His pace was brisk, his irritation visible. Sloane was with him and appeared to be much less bothered by the inconvenience.

They stopped at the counter.

The employee greeted them, checking the screen as confusion settled into her features. She had no idea why they were there.

Flynn’s stance shifted—impatience. A clipped exchange. He leaned on the counter slightly, his frustration restrained but simmering.

Sloane said something low, not quite a whisper but controlled.

Alexei watched, not too long but just long enough.

Targets acquired.

Alexei didn’t follow immediately. That was the difference between a hunter and a hound; he didn’t chase. He let them lead.

Flynn and Sloane stood at the counter a moment longer, the agent offering helpless shrugs as Flynn’s impatience simmered. The moment she gestured vaguely toward the main concourse, Flynn turned away, raking a hand through his hair. The man was frustrated, making it less likely that he’d spot a tail, especially in this crowded setting.

Alexei moved as they did, keeping a diagonal trajectory, never behind, never too close, weaving through travelers with a fluid, unhurried pace. If he lost sight of them for a moment, he didn’t panic—he anticipated their path.

Flynn walked with purpose, not the aimless meandering of an airport traveler with time to kill. This was a man with momentum. A man eager to reach his destination, irritated by delays but still moving with the conviction of someone who believed he was onto something.

Commander Sloane matched his stride but carried less tension. She spoke as they moved, her hands moving slightly, a habit of someone comfortable in conversation, engaged. Flynn responded with actual interest.

And Alexei noted that.

The American, former CIA, was a guarded man by nature—that much was obvious. But with her, he was relaxed. The occasional tilt of his head toward her, the way his mouth curved slightly at the edges when she spoke—these were tells. Not conscious ones. The kind a man wasn’t even aware of.

Sloane wasn’t just a colleague. She laughed at something—quick, unfiltered. Flynn’s posture loosened as they walked together. The irritation of the moment was wearing off. Because of her.

This will be useful.

Alexei adjusted his course, angling ahead of them now, just another traveler in the thrumming pulse of the airport.

Sloane’s phone buzzed, drawing her attention. She glanced down and swiped her thumb across the screen. She took a moment to read the text message.

And just like that, everything changed.

Her posture tightened.

Her stride faltered for just a fraction of a second—enough for a trained observer like Alexei to notice.

The enthusiasm in her eyes dulled, replaced with something else. Not fear. Not shock. Something heavier.

Regret, maybe.

Flynn didn’t notice right away. He kept talking, still riding the momentum of whatever idea had carried them this far.

Alexei saw the moment she stopped engaging. Her answers became shorter. Her focus fractured. Then Flynn caught it too.

He slowed, frowning slightly. He said something—a question, maybe. Asking what was wrong.

Sloane hesitated. Didn’t answer right away.

This is interesting.

Alexei shifted his position, moving ahead just enough to use a nearby reflective column to catch the edge of their expressions.

Flynn’s expression tightened, his gaze sharpening as he studied her reaction. He said something else—more forceful now. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away from the crowd.

Sloane jerked her arm away from him.

Flynn leaned in slightly—not threatening, but challenging. Alexei didn’t need to hear them to know they were arguing.

A few more words. A moment of silence.

Then—Sloane turned on her heel and walked away. Not rushed. Not storming off. Just done.

Flynn stood there, unmoving.

Alexei observed the conflict on Flynn’s face. For a moment, it seemed like he might go after her. Instead, he turned back toward the gate.

Alexei recognized the exact moment his priorities changed.

Sloane had been his target—the entire reason he had followed them this far. But clearly she was done. Whatever she had just learned had been enough to make her abandon Flynn and their mission, whatever that was.

And yet, Flynn still appeared to be charging ahead. He was still going to El Paso, still chasing something.

Alexei needed to know what.

His security badge would get him on that plane.

22

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

Admiral Paul Barrow adjusted his glove as he watched Senator Quentin Danbury approach the first tee at the Army Navy Country Club. Danbury moved with the quiet confidence of a man who knew his game was good. His stance was sharp, practiced. His grip was firm but relaxed. Unlike most politicians, he didn’t treat golf like a photo op. Danbury played to win. And Barrow respected that.

Danbury took a smooth, controlled swing. The ball launched cleanly, cutting through the air before landing two-hundred-and-eighty-five yards away, dead center in the fairway, rolling to a perfect stop, leaving him a 7-iron from the green.

Damn good shot.

Danbury gave a small nod of satisfaction, stepping back. “That’ll play.”

Barrow didn’t react right away. He stepped up to the tee, rolling his shoulders, taking his time. He didn’t rush, didn’t measure himself against Danbury. He already knew how this was going to end.

Danbury watched him, arms crossed, leaning slightly on his driver. “They’re eating it up, Paul,” he said, voice casual. “ASP is the new American favorite. People feel safe again. That’s because of us.”

Barrow remained focused on the ball. He adjusted his grip, set his feet. “The people don’t just love it. They need it.”

With effortless precision, he swung. The sound was crisp, the impact solid. The ball cut through the air like a bullet, soaring a good fifteen yards farther than Danbury’s before landing perfectly positioned for an easy 135-yard approach to the green.

Danbury’s lips pressed together, but he gave a respectful nod. “Hell of a shot, Admiral,” he said.

They walked to Danbury’s ball resting neatly in the fairway. He stepped out, estimated the distance to the pin, then grabbed his 7-iron. But Barrow wasn’t watching the shot. He was watching Danbury.

The senator lined up, body steady, hands sure. He took a smooth, controlled swing, arcing the ball toward the hole. It landed softly on the green, about fifteen feet from the pin—a solid shot.

Barrow gave a slow nod. “You’re playing well today, Senator.”

“I try to keep my form sharp,” Danbury said

Barrow selected his own club without a second thought. “That’s good,” he said. “You’ll need to be.”

Danbury was smart. Barrow knew the senator would understand that he was talking more about just their friendly round of golf.

“Meaning?” Danbury asked.

Barrow said nothing and approached his ball. No practice swing. No second-guessing. Just pure, instinctive execution. He placed the shot just four feet from the flag.

“Nice,” Danbury said with genuine admiration in his voice.

Barrow turned to him and said, “It’s a good start.”

Danbury, putter in hand, walked toward the green. “The public is behind you. That’s clear,” he said.

Barrow kept his stride even, letting Danbury talk himself into the next point.

“But public opinion isn’t the only thing that matters,” Danbury said. “Washington isn’t a campaign stop. There are concerns.”

Barrow raised an eyebrow. “Concerns?”

Danbury reached his ball, setting his feet as he examined his putt. “The opposition is growing. Indiana was… noisy. And it’s getting harder to control the conversation.”

Barrow let the words hang, watching Danbury attempt his putt. A clean stroke. Smooth. Controlled. The ball rolled toward the hole, hugging the break. It was on-line but stopped just a few inches short of the hole.

He stepped back and watched Barrow move into position. “Some are calling for oversight,” Danbury said. “They want to start asking questions.”

“They can ask their questions. We’ll keep doing our job,” Barrow said.

A crisp stroke. Barrow’s ball rolled straight and true, dropping in with a satisfying click. Birdie.

Danbury tapped in his putt, settling for par. He took a moment longer than necessary retrieving his ball, rolling it between his fingers as if weighing something more than just his next shot.

Barrow set his putter in his bag and adjusted his glove, waiting.

“Paul, I’m with you,” Danbury said. “I have been from the start. But the game has changed.”

“How so?”

“The next operation—maybe it’s time we consider restraint. Possibly some transparency. Something to ease the tensions in Washington.”

“You talking about the media or your fellow politicians?”

“Both,” Danbury said. “I’m not talking about grounding ASP I’m talking about how it looks out there.”

“Optics.”

“Optics shape reality,” Danbury said. “You and I both know that.”

Barrow stopped at the next tee box. “I’ll talk to my people. We’ll find the right balance.”

“What should I do in the meantime?” asked Danbury.

Barrow set his ball on the tee, lining up his shot. He stepped back and glared at the senator from Virginia. “You want to be president, Quentin? Remember this—strong men don’t ask permission to keep their people safe. They just do what needs to be done.”

With a sharp crack, Barrow crushed his drive and watched the ball settle in the center of the fairway. Danbury didn’t say anything right away. Barrow didn’t expect him to.

“You’re already out there defending ASP every day,” Barrow said. “And I appreciate that, I surely do. But that’s not enough anymore.”

Danbury looked up from his ball resting on the tee. “What exactly are you asking me to do?”

Barrow kept his eyes on the fairway. “Lean into the job,” He said. “Hard. Not just speeches, not just sound bites. People don’t just need to support ASP. They need to believe that without it, they’re vulnerable. That every day we don’t act is another day closer to disaster.”

“You’re talking about fear,” Danbury said. “So I start ringing alarm bells? Scare the hell out of the American people?”

“You don’t have to scare them,” Barrow said. “You just have to make them see the truth. Show them how fragile things really are. We’ve given them victories, but victories make people complacent. We need them to understand the war isn’t over. The threats aren’t gone. The terrorists are just waiting for us to let up. We need the people to demand that we don’t let up. And we need them looking at you while they do it.”

Danbury didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded measured. “Public opinion is one thing. Policy is another,” he said. “If we push too hard, we start losing people.”

Barrow shook his head. “You’re thinking like a senator.” He placed a firm hand on Danbury’s shoulder, his grip just heavy enough to make the moment linger. “Start thinking like a president.”

Danbury glanced at Barrow’s hand.

Barrow smiled. “You are where you are because of me, Quentin. Don’t forget that.”

23

NEW MEXICO

Leslie followed Braggs up the ridge, her boots crunching against dry, sunbaked dirt. The climb wasn’t steep, but the heat pressed down on her, sweat gathering at the back of her neck. She focused on his movements—he walked like a man who’d done this before. Too comfortable. Too familiar.

At the crest, Braggs stopped and planted his hands on his hips. “Well, there she is.”

Leslie reached the top and took in the sight below.

The NASA test site was exactly what she expected—a ghost town baked in dust and neglect. A chain-link fence, collapsed in some areas, ringed the facility, though much of it was buried beneath shifting sand. Beyond the perimeter sat a cluster of squatty, windowless buildings, their faded white paint peeling under the relentless sun. A rusted satellite dish sagged atop one of the structures, its frame warped from time.

Leslie pulled out her phone and snapped a few shots. “No one comes out here?” she asked.

Braggs shook his head. “Not unless they’re lost.”

Leslie started down the ridge, careful of loose rocks beneath her boots. Braggs followed, his posture more at ease now that they were close. That, more than anything, put her on edge.

As they neared the perimeter, she noticed old “U.S. Government Property” signs riddled with bullet holes. The gate had rusted off its hinges, barely hanging on. Leslie stepped over the twisted metal and into the past.

Braggs moved ahead, his boots stirring up dust as he walked toward one of the buildings.

“You seem awfully comfortable here,” she said.

Braggs didn’t turn. “I’ve been here before.”

Leslie frowned. “And?”

“And,” he said, pulling open a dented metal door, “I didn’t find what I was looking for.”

He disappeared inside.

Leslie took a breath, her unease growing. She had assumed Braggs was after something—but the way he talked about this place, the way he moved through it like a man chasing ghosts—he wasn’t just looking. He was waiting.

For what? Or for whom?

A wind kicked up, swirling sand across the pavement. Leslie followed Braggs into the darkness of the building, unaware that eyes were watching them from the ridge above.

Braggs stepped through the doorway first, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. The air was stale, filled with dust and the ghost of something long rusted. The place was just as he remembered it—empty. Hollow. Useless.

He’d been out here more times than he cared to admit, chasing a hunch that had led to nothing.

But now, for the first time in years, someone else was interested. And that made him uneasy.

Behind him, Leslie moved carefully, her gaze sweeping across the abandoned space. She didn’t walk like a tourist. She walked like someone expecting to find something.

Braggs leaned against the nearest desk, arms crossed, watching her.

“You sure NASA didn’t just set up some practice facility?” he asked, playing casual.

Leslie didn’t look up. “NASA documented everything. The only time they didn’t was when they had something to hide.”

Braggs smirked. “Is that your journalistic gut talking?”

She shot him a look. “My journalistic gut got me this far, didn’t it?”

Braggs didn’t argue. Instead, he just watched.

Leslie ran her fingers along the walls, brushing away layers of dust, pausing at random intervals. Like she was looking for something she couldn’t quite name.

His stomach twisted. This was why he’d brought her. He had spent years combing over every inch of this place, but she had fresh eyes. Maybe she’d see something he had missed.

And then—she did.

She crouched near an old filing cabinet, brushing away a thick layer of dust. Braggs took a step closer, his breath catching. A faint seam in the floor, a nearly invisible gap right where the concrete should have been solid.

Leslie dug at it with her boot, clearing more of the outline.

A hidden door.

Braggs swallowed hard. Son of a bitch. His pulse pounded in his ears. He’d searched this place a hundred times, but never saw this.

Leslie didn’t know what she’d just found, but he did.

Before he could react, the sound of engines echoed outside.

Braggs stiffened.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

Leslie shot up, eyes sharp. “You expecting company?”

Braggs didn’t answer immediately. He was too busy calculating exits.

Leslie stepped toward him, voice tight. “You tell anyone we were coming out here?”

Braggs shook his head. But his gut twisted.

Not here for her. Here for me.

24

NEW MEXICO

Leslie crouched near the old filing cabinet, brushing away a thick layer of caked sand and dust. As she cleared the debris with the toe of her boot, she noticed an exaggerated seam between the floor tiles.

She heard the sound of engines coming closer.

“Wait here,” Braggs said. “I need to see what this is.”

Leslie barely heard him or noticed that he ran from the facility back out into the desert. She had found something, and at the moment, that’s all she cared about.

She ran her fingers over the broken tile, pushing against it and trying to get her fingertips underneath, hoping she could pry it up. It didn’t budge.

Braggs had noticed it earlier, hadn’t he? He saw her kicking at it. Right before they heard the oncoming vehicles.

Leslie glanced toward the door. Braggs was still gone. If she was going to do this, it had to be now.

Bracing herself, she lifted her boot and kicked at the seam. A dull thud echoed through the room. The tile barely shifted.

Leslie gritted her teeth and stomped on it, this time with both feet. Once, twice, three times.

Crack.

A jagged split formed in the floor and dust puffed as the tile loosened beneath her boot. She crouched, hooked her fingers under the edge, and pulled. With a groan, the concrete gave way, lifting up with a horrid crunch like pulling a rotten tooth. She used her bodyweight to push the concrete slab out of the way to reveal…

A hatch.

Old, rusted at the hinges, almost invisible beneath the dust and tile. It had been sealed and forgotten for decades.

She wrapped her fingers around the handle and yanked it open. It didn’t do so willingly, but she was able to force it open, the old hinges groaning as she peeled back the door. A narrow metal ladder led downward into darkness. She swung her legs over the edge.

Leslie’s boots hit solid ground maybe eight feet under the surface. The air stale and heavy with decades of dust and neglect.

She took a moment to allow her eyes adjust to the dim glow filtering in from above. The room wasn’t large, but she knew the answers were there.

Filing cabinets lined the walls, their labels faded and peeling. A rusted projector sat in the center, its screen still mounted as if someone had once been in the middle of a briefing—and then just stopped.

Her fingers trailed over the dust-coated desk.

And then she saw it. A thick, worn binder.

Cyclops—Final Briefing

She flipped it open, scanning the brittle pages. She skimmed the pages until she came to one that made her stop. She felt the adrenaline. This was it.

The truth.

She took a moment to let it sink in. She would look deeper into the file later when she was alone. This wasn’t something she could just read and draw immediate conclusions. Instead of giving her all the answers she wanted, it invited more questions, questions she’d have to investigate more thoroughly.

She chucked the binder into her backpack. Then as she turned, her foot hit something metal —a sealed film canister marked in bold letters:

Classified Apollo Footage — Do Not Distribute

Her stomach twisted as the sound of voices from above snapped her head up.

It was Braggs. And someone else.

Leslie shoved the canister into her pack and climbed out of the vault. She kicked the hatch closed and dragged the concrete tile back in place. She scurried to cover the site with more debris, but she was sure Braggs would see what she’d found.

She barely had time to dust off her hands before stepping out of the building into the sunlight and finding Braggs standing face to face with five dangerous looking men.

25

NEW MEXICO

The highway stretched ahead, a long black ribbon cutting through the New Mexico desert. But Flynn wasn’t watching the landscape. He was watching his mirror.

There it was again. The same dark blue SUV. Keeping steady, never getting too close, never falling too far behind. It had been with him for at least forty miles. Maybe more. In truth it had been following him since he left El Paso earlier in the day.

A tail in the city could blend in. A tail in the desert? That was something else entirely. But whoever it was, they were good, managing to stay back far enough as to not be a threat.

Ahead, a faded green road sign marked a turnoff—a dirt service road, barely more than a trail leading toward an old power station. Flynn slowed just enough to make the turn seem casual, dust kicking up behind the truck as he pulled off the highway.

He drove a quarter mile in, enough for the SUV to make a choice. If it kept going on the highway, maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was some rancher or oil guy with bad luck in navigation. But if it followed? Then it was time to get serious.

Flynn checked the mirror. The SUV didn’t hesitate. It veered off the pavement, rolling onto the service road in a slow, deliberate pursuit.

That was all Flynn needed to see. He pulled over and slipped out of the pickup, staying low, outside the SUV driver’s view. The early-evening sun dipped low and cast long, distorted shadows. It wasn’t dark yet, but the light was fading enough to give him some cover to work with. He didn’t know who was inside the SUV, but he knew their type. Patient and disciplined. Watching, not acting. Definitely not some local goon.

Whoever he was, he’d followed Flynn across state lines, through airports, and into the desert without making a move. That meant one of two things—he was waiting for orders, or he wanted Flynn to make the first move.

And Flynn was happy to oblige.

The SUV rolled forward, slow and cautious, the tires crunching over dirt and loose rock. The driver parked behind the empty pickup truck, no doubt wondering where its occupant disappeared to. Flynn used the pause to his advantage and timed his approach, moving against the shifting light, staying just outside its reach.

The driver’s door opened, and Flynn struck.

The man barely had time to grunt before Flynn ripped him from the driver’s seat and pinned him against the side of the SUV, one forearm pressing hard against his throat.

The guy wasn’t scared. That told Flynn a lot. Calm under pressure. Military, or something close to it.

The man smiled. “Took you long enough.”

Flynn’s grip tightened. “You’ve been following me since Houston. Why?”

No answer. Just the same calm, measured look but with a puzzled expression.

“The airport,” Flynn said. “The bogus page to the information desk. I spotted you almost right away. And I noticed you behind me ever since.”

Flynn applied more pressure to the man’s throat.

“You’re good,” the man wheezed.

“You already knew that,” Flynn said. “Let’s talk about stuff we don’t know, like who you are and why you’re tailing me.”

Flynn barely saw the shift before the man reversed his hold. A sharp twist, a shift of weight—then Flynn’s grip was empty.

Flynn barely got his forearm up before the man drove an elbow into his ribs, knocking him back a step. The attacker didn’t hesitate, following with a sharp, surgical strike toward Flynn’s throat—not wild, not reckless. Precise. Meant to disable.

The reversal was a textbook Spetsnaz maneuver.

“Russian,” Flynn said.

Flynn deflected, twisting his body and swinging an open palm into the man’s jaw, forcing him off balance.

The man recovered quickly. The thin smile said he was impressed.

“Once upon a time I was Special Forces,” the Russian said. “Now, I am just Alexei Volkov. And, you, James Flynn, are out of shape. I am much older than you and shouldn’t have been able to get the upper hand.”

Flynn breathed steadily, watching Alexei’s footwork. “You always run your mouth in a fight?”

Volkov feinted left, then went low, trying to take Flynn’s legs out from under him. Flynn jumped back just in time, twisting with the motion, but the Russian was already moving again—a snap kick aimed for Flynn’s gut.

Flynn caught it—barely—and twisted the man’s leg with both hands.

Volkov rotated in midair, hitting the dirt and rolling before Flynn could follow up. He was back on his feet in a second, dust swirling between them.

Flynn let his stance shift. “You’re good.”

Volkov brushed the dirt off his jacket. “I’ve had recent practice, unlike you.”

Then he lunged again.

Flynn sidestepped, letting Alexei’s momentum carry him past—then struck hard across the back of his shoulder. The Russian stumbled forward but caught himself, rolling back up to his feet.

Flynn didn’t let up. He moved in, trading a sharp hook for a counterstrike. He could read Alexei now—the older man was losing stamina.

“Who sent you?” Flynn asked.

Volkov dodged a jab. “No one.”

Another deflection, another counter.

“You’ve been following me since Houston,” Flynn said. “Why?”

Volkov didn’t answer. He crouched down, wiped dust from his jacket sleeve, then stood and circled a few steps wide, sizing Flynn up like a fighter between rounds.

Flynn shifted his stance. “You gonna speak or just make laps?”

Volkov stopped. “Depends what you already know.”

Flynn kept his voice neutral. “Does this have anything to do with Cyclops?”

That made Volkov laugh—a short, surprised exhale that felt too honest to be tactical.

He smiled and shook his head. “You’re still stuck in the basement.”

Flynn stepped forward. “That supposed to mean something?”

“To you? No.” Volkov turned slightly, hands loose at his sides. “But it tells me everything I needed to know.”

Before Flynn could reply, Volkov moved—fast and clean. He grabbed Flynn’s jacket, twisted it, and dropped him to the dirt in one fluid motion.

Flynn landed hard. He tried to roll, but Volkov stepped on his forearm and leaned in close.

“I thought you might be a problem,” he said calmly. “You’re not.”

Flynn strained against him. “Then why are you still here?”

“Because someday you might be useful.” Volkov’s voice was quiet. “But not today.”

Flynn barely registered the first blow—just a blur and the crack of bone. The second came low: a sharp kick to the side of his knee. Flynn staggered.

He swung back, caught nothing but air. Volkov moved like water—smooth, practiced, fluid.

Another shot landed square to Flynn’s ribs. Then a palm under the chin that snapped his head back. Flynn went down hard, shoulder-first into the dust.

Volkov didn’t hesitate. He kicked Flynn once, hard, in the gut. Flynn curled, choking. Another blow came down across his shoulder.

Flynn rolled to his knees, ready to lunge—but Volkov had already stepped back, unfazed.

“Keep digging,” Volkov said. “But if I were you, I’d stop asking about moon rocks and start asking who’s moving satellites.”

He turned and headed for the SUV.

Dazed, Flynn stayed crouched in the dirt, watching the horizon shrink as Volkov drove off.

He wasn’t dead. But he didn’t feel like he’d won.

26

NEW MEXICO

Leslie exchanged a look with Braggs. He didn’t look concerned. That meant one of two things: Either he expected this or he thought he could talk his way out of it.

Leslie stepped closer to him, lowering her voice. “Friends of yours?”

“I’d say ‘friends’ is a stretch,” he whispered. “Let’s say we’re familiar.”

She saw two vehicles parked just a few yards away—a mud-crusted Jeep and a pickup truck, newer but just as dirty, alongside it.

Leslie counted five men.

One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a heavy blond beard and cold blue eyes, stepped forward. He wore a sun-bleached Stetson and carried the kind of confidence that only came from being the most dangerous person in the room. He had a sidearm holstered on his hip.

He looked Braggs up and down then grinned.

“Well, hell,” the bearded man said, voice thick with amusement. “Ain’t this a surprise.”

Braggs rocked back on his heels, hands still resting at his sides.

“Bobby Kincaid,” Braggs drawled. “I didn’t think you crawled outside of your hole during the daytime.”

Kincaid grinned wider. “Funny. Don’t you got some tourists to cheat outta their hard-earned money with them overpriced trinkets of yours?”

Leslie’s stomach tightened. Not friends.

Kincaid shifted his attention toward her. He studied her the way a man sizes up a stray dog—not immediately hostile, but deciding if it was worth the trouble.

“New face,” he said. “Not local. Pretty, though.”

Kincaid’s men laughed. “Pretty enough, anyway,” said one.

Leslie didn’t react, her expression blank.

Kincaid turned back to Braggs. “Been watchin’ this place for a long time, Braggs,” he said. “Funny thing, seein’ an unfamiliar car trailing that old Chevy of yours. Thought we’d stop by. See what’s got you interested in coming out here again.”

Leslie noticed the accent Kincaid put on the last word—Again.

Kincaid sighed, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, Wyatt, but weren’t you done with this place?”

Braggs smirked. “Guess I just like to come back and visit now and again.”

That got a laugh from Kincaid as he craned his neck toward his men. “You hear that? Ol’ Wyatt’s gettin’ nostalgic.”

Laughter from the gallery.

Kincaid’s smile lingered, but his eyes sharpened. “You spent years sniffin’ around this place, and found nothin’. Dead end. Dry hole. You swore it off.” He took a slow step forward, looking more ominous the closer he got. “But now you’re back. And you brought company.”

His voice was smooth but with more than a hint of menace behind the words. Braggs still didn’t look nervous, but Leslie felt her hands tremble.

“So,” Kincaid went on, “you wanna tell me why you’re diggin’ in old bones again?”

Braggs finally moved. Not much—just a tiny shift to his posture as if he was loosening up before a fight.

“See, that’s where we got a problem,” Braggs said. “Because I don’t like repeating myself, and you don’t like bein’ lied to.”

Kincaid nodded, amused. “That is a problem.”

Leslie watched the other men. Two of them stood with their hands resting near their belts—not reaching for the guns attached to their hips just yet.

Braggs glanced sideways at her. “Well,” he muttered under his breath, “you wanted a story.”

Leslie clenched her jaw.

Yeah. But I wasn’t planning on it being my obituary.

27

ALAMOGORDO, NEW MEXICO

The New Mexico Museum of Space History sat on a hill overlooking Alamogordo, a modern structure of steel and glass that felt out of place against the rugged backdrop of the desert. The museum covered everything from early rocketry to the Apollo program, and if there was anywhere in the state that might have records of a forgotten NASA facility, it was here. Whether or not anyone would talk about it remained to be seen.

Inside, a few families wandered through the exhibits, pointing at replicas of spacecraft and moon suits. Flynn headed straight for the information desk.

A museum employee in his late forties, wearing khakis and a blue polo embroidered with the museum’s logo, greeted him with a nod.

“How are you today,” he said. “Welcome to the New Mexico Museum of Space History. Can I help you find something?”

Flynn reverted back to the folksy charm of his Captain Jim persona. “I hope so. I’m a writer, working on a piece about Apollo-era research sites. White Sands is well-documented, but I’ve come across mentions of another site. Something involving Cyclops? Ever heard of it?”

The man shook his head. “White Sands was NASA’s main facility out here. They did astronaut training, engine tests, all that. But Cyclops? That’s a new one. I’ve been here over ten years, and that name’s never come up in any of our records.”

Flynn nodded, hiding his disappointment. “Figured it was a long shot. Just had to check.”

“Yeah, sorry,” the man said. “If NASA ran anything classified out here, they sure didn’t leave any evidence behind. Most likely just a rumor though. That whole time period really brings out the conspiracy theorists, you know, Area 51 and all.”

“Don’t I know it,” Flynn said.

He hadn’t really expected a museum to have classified records sitting around, but hearing nothing was frustrating. Maybe he was chasing ghosts.

As he reached the doors, he caught movement from the corner of his eye—an older man, maybe mid-sixties, trailing behind him. Flynn tensed slightly, instincts kicking in. Then the man called out.

“Mr. Flynn?”

Flynn turned. The man had a weathered face, lined from years under the desert sun. He wore the same blue polo shirt as the man at the information desk, and a hat that looked like it had been through decades of New Mexico’s toughest weather. A name tag was pinned to his chest. It read: Cliff.

Flynn eyed him. “Do I know you?”

The man grinned. “Not personally, but I know you. Seen you on TV, read one of your books. You got a way of digging into things most folks ignore. I heard you asking questions at the desk.”

Flynn relaxed a fraction. He’d had his fifteen minutes of fame as a debunker of conspiracy theories and wound up with his face plastered all over cable TV news shows. It had earned him a moderate level of celebrity for a time, though his fame was greater than he wished it was among the tinfoil hat crowd. Though it had been a while since he was in the public eye, people still recognized him from time to time. And it was never convenient.

“And you are?” he asked.

“Name’s Cliff Rollings,” the man said. “And I might have something for you.”

Maybe this is convenient for once.

Flynn gestured to the side of the building, away from the foot traffic. “Let’s talk.”

They walked a few steps until they had some space. Flynn kept his tone casual. “What do you know?”

Rollings scratched his jaw, glancing around as if making sure no one else was listening. “Back in early ’69, me and a few buddies were out in the desert north of White Sands. We used to take horses out there when we were kids, play cowboys, see who could go the longest without gettin’ lost.” He laughed. “It was a different time back then.”

“That’s prime restricted land,” Flynn said.

“Yeah, well, we weren’t exactly law-abiding back then. You know how kids can be. We ran into this place. Middle of nowhere, not marked on any maps. High fences, barbed wire, guard posts. The whole nine yards.”

“NASA?” Flynn asked.

“That’s what we figured,” Rollings said. “No signs, no logos, but it was government, no doubt. Big operation, too—trucks going in and out, floodlights, cameras. Big hangar-sized building and some smaller ones made of cinderblocks. It was like they were hiding something real important. We thought they were filming a movie or something. Hell, when Star Wars came out just a few years later, couple of my old buddies were convinced they shot the desert scenes out there. Of course we learned those scenes were shot in Tunisia, but I’m sure the government was taking pictures of something out in the New Mexico desert.”

“What happened to the facility?” Flynn asked.

Rollings exhaled, his expression turning thoughtful. “We went back a year later, late 1970, and the place was deserted. Gates wide open, buildings half-torn down like they were in a hurry to clear out. By seventy-one, you’d be hard-pressed to even know it was there. Just some rundown old buildings.”

From his bag, Flynn pulled the photos Sam Harlan had given him, along with the ones from Building 31. “Can you tell me anything about these?”

Rollings studied them, his brow creasing. He took his time, squinting at the details before shaking his head. “I don’t know where these were taken, but I can tell you one thing—these ain’t from the moon.”

Flynn stiffened. “You’re certain? Can you see what’s reflected in Armstrong’s visor? I thought it might be⁠—“

Rollings pointed to the sky in the photos. “Stars.”

Flynn raised his eyebrows.

Rollings didn’t wait for Flynn’s question. “Because of how bright the moon’s surface is, stars don’t show up in any of the old Apollo photos,” he said. “Sky’s black, sure, but empty. No stars. Cameras back then couldn’t capture them. None of the real photos from the lunar surface have stars in them.”

Flynn’s stomach dropped.

Rollings tapped the photo. “Whoever faked these didn’t know that,” he said. “They put stars in the sky.”

Flynn stared at the image and noticed something. Tiny pinpricks of light scattered across the black horizon. He’d noticed them but it didn’t register. A mistake, a detail no one should have overlooked.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Flynn said after a moment.

Rollings nodded. “I don’t know what went on at that site, but I’ll tell you this much—someone went to a lot of trouble to hide it.”

“Ever heard of Cyclops?” Flynn said. “Any idea what that is?”

Rollings shook his head. “Sorry, no. If it was classified we wouldn’t know about here. We’re strictly given the official NASA story here, I’m afraid. I’m sure there are lots of things we don’t know.”

Flynn handed the photo he’d taken from Building 31 back to Rollings.

“I was told it’s from October ’69, three months after Apollo 11. Promo stuff,” Flynn said. “Except one thing has been bothering me. I’d never seen this photo before. If NASA went to the expense of creating a promotional campaign about the first moon landing, why wasn’t this photo all over the place?”

Rollings seemed to not hear him. He was focused on the image. “Interesting,” he said.

“What?”

Rollings pointed at Armstrong’s chest. “You’re wrong about that date.”

Flynn frowned.

Rollings tapped the image again. “Look at his spacesuit. Where’s the mission patch?”

Flynn had no idea what the man was talking about and he hated riddles.

Rollings continued, “NASA always had the mission patches sewn onto the astronauts’ suits about a month before launch. Once it was on, it never came off.”

Flynn took the photo back and looked at it—there was no mission patch. “So this wasn’t taken in October?”

Rollings shook his head. “No. It had to have been taken before Apollo 11.”

Flynn’s stomach knotted. Victoria told him the footage was shot as a promotional campaign. She said it was filmed after Apollo 11 landed on the moon.

She was wrong—or she’d lied.

28

NEW MEXICO

Leslie knew trouble when she saw it. And Bobby Kincaid? He wasn’t the kind of man who found trouble—he was the kind who made trouble.

Her heart pounded. If she looked scared, they’d feed on it, so she kept her face neutral. She hoped it was working.

She glanced at Braggs. He looked to be the opposite of scared, almost enjoying himself. He grinned at the men surrounding them.

“Kincaid,” Braggs said, shaking his head like he was watching an old buddy make a damn fool of himself. “I hate to break it to you, but I got a new hobby. Left all this nonsense behind.”

Kincaid tapped the brim of his hat, feigning thoughtfulness. “That so?”

Braggs huffed, like he was bored. “Just out here showin’ my friend here some old history. That’s all.”

The men chuckled, except for Kincaid. His fingers drummed against his holster. “And what kinda history you reckon is out here, Braggs?”

“NASA history. Moon landing. Space-age wonder,” Braggs said. “What else?”

“Just ain’t the kind of history you usually dig for is all. Last time we saw you, you was sayin’ you was done. That this place had nothin’ left to give.”

Braggs spread his hands. “I was done.”

Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “Then why’re you back?”

Braggs sighed. “You ever get curious, Kincaid? Ever just… wonder about somethin’?”

Kincaid stared at him. Then he snorted. “Curiosity ain’t worth dyin’ over.”

Leslie felt the mood shift. Kincaid’s men stopped smiling. Their bodies went still, tension coiling tight.

“Look, Bobby, we ain’t out here stirring up trouble. Just showing my new friend the old NASA stuff—chicks dig rockets.” To Leslie: “Isn’t that right?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Nothing makes my little girl heart pitter-patter like a rundown Apollo-era research facility that’s been abandoned for decades.”

Kincaid’s eyes shifted to her. “She’s a funny one, Braggs. A keeper.”

Leslie held his stare, swallowing the fear that gripped her stomach. Then she steeled herself and managed to regain some swagger as if she wasn’t trapped in the middle of a standoff. “Well, I was looking forward to the scenery,” she said. “Didn’t expect such a charming welcoming committee, though.”

Kincaid cracked a smile, but his eyes stayed cold. “Yeah, funny thing about diggin’ around places you don’t belong, Missy—you tend to find company.”

Leslie tilted her head in mock innocence. “Oh, is that what happened? I thought we just stumbled upon the local neighborhood watch.” She looked around at the armed men. “Y’all hand out pamphlets too, or is this more of a ‘get off my lawn’ situation?’”

Kincaid’s jaw tightened.

Braggs released a low chuckle and stepped in fast. “Alright now, Bobby, take it easy,” he said. “You know how city folks are back East—sarcasm’s their second language.”

Kincaid remained locked on Leslie. His fingers flexed at his sides.

“How ‘bout we all just take a deep breath, huh?” Braggs said. “No need to get all twisted up over a smart mouth. I’m sure she’s sorry. “ He looked at Leslie. “Tell the man how sorry you are.”

Leslie was suddenly aware that she’d made a horrible error in judgment. She gave a slow, frightened nod, knowing that if she opened her mouth, sarcasm would slip out and make things worse.

Kincaid didn’t blink. That’s when she knew things were about to go south unless Braggs could calm the waters.

“Look,” Braggs said, real easy, “ain’t no need to make this a thing. We’ll be on our way.”

Kincaid rocked back on his heels. “No need to rush off,” he said. “Came all this way, might as well stick around for a while.” Then he turned to Leslie.

“What about you, sweetheart?” Kincaid’s eyes stayed on her, steady and unblinking. “You just along for the ride, or you got your own reasons for sniffin’ around?”

Leslie’s stomach tightened. It wasn’t just a question. It was a test.

Braggs must’ve sensed the same thing, because his body tensed, just enough for her to notice.

“Let’s not do this,” Braggs said, his voice calm but firm.

“See, that’s the problem, Braggs. It’s already a thing.”

Leslie’s eyes darted from Kincaid to Braggs

He scratched his chin, shooting her a look that was almost apologetic. Then he sighed. “Well, Bobby, looks like we’re doing this after all.”

And then Braggs moved—and he moved fast.

Before Leslie even registered what happened, Braggs’s fist struck Kincaid’s jaw, snapping the bigger man’s head to the side and staggering him.

For a half-second, nobody moved. Then all hell broke loose.

Leslie ducked as one of Kincaid’s men lunged. Braggs was already swinging again, driving his boot into the gut of the nearest thug. The guy wheezed, stumbling back.

Leslie ran, scrambling behind a stack of filthy, battered crates.

Braggs backed up toward her, fists up, eyes flicking between the men circling him. “Now, fellas,” he called, “before anyone does anything really stupid⁠—”

Kincaid wiped blood from his lip. “Kill him.”

“That’s just the kind of stupid thing I was hoping to avoid,” Braggs said.

Gunfire erupted.

Braggs dove. Leslie pulled him toward her away from a flurry of bullets that shredded through the crates, kicking up splinters.

“Thanks,” he said.

“That’s your plan?” she said. “Punch the men with guns?”

“I admit it’s not the best decision I’ve made today.”

More gunfire was making short work of their cover.

“Move!” Braggs barked.

He grabbed her arm and dragged her deeper into the crumbling NASA facility. They ran, boots pounding against the pavement. More gunfire. Bullets zipped past—too damn close.

Braggs led her around a corner, pressing her against the concrete wall, his breath ragged.

“Okay,” he panted, grinning like an idiot. “Now you’ve got your story.”

Leslie smacked his shoulder. “You punched him!”

“He was askin’ for it.”

Braggs flashed a revolver that had been tucked in his jeans under his shirt.

Leslie clenched her teeth. “You had that the whole time?”

He smiled. “I figured talkin’ first was more polite.”

Gunfire shattered a window above them.

Braggs winced. “Guess that ship sailed, huh?”

“Seems that way,” she said.

She took a deep breath. This was it. No running now. No more fast-talking their way out. They were in it.

And if they wanted to get out alive, they were going to have to fight their way out.

29

Leslie ran. She wasn’t thinking anymore—just moving, lungs burning, boots slamming the ground as she followed Braggs deeper into the old NASA facility. Bullets cracked off rusted beams behind them, sending bits of metal and dust flying.

Braggs skidded around a corner, yanking Leslie with him. “This way!”

She barely had time to register where they were going before another shot whizzed past, sparking off the wall.

“Where the hell are we going?” she said.

“Out,” Braggs said. “Preferably without any extra holes in our bodies.”

The hallway was a mess. Sections of collapsed ceiling exposed the bright blue New Mexico sky. They dodged various pieces of ruined antique equipment and other chunks of debris. Braggs led them through a jagged opening where a door had long rotted off its hinges, ducking into a pitch-black corridor.

Leslie pressed against the wall, breathing hard. “You sure about this?”

“Not even a little.”

They plunged forward, the darkness swallowing them. Behind them, Kincaid’s men were getting closer. Their voices echoed through the halls, barking orders.

“They went this way!”

“They’re trapped! Block the exits!”

Leslie’s heart pounded harder. Braggs yanked open a rusted service hatch and motioned for her to go through.

“C’mon,” he said, gesturing for her to join him.

She hesitated. “Where does this lead?”

“Anywhere but here will do for now.”

She climbed through, dropping into a narrow corridor. Braggs followed, slamming the hatch behind him. The space was barely wide enough to move, just a forgotten maintenance shaft running alongside the facility’s outer wall.

“We getting out, or dying in a crawlspace?” Leslie muttered.

Braggs ran his hands along the wall, feeling for something. “Ah, there she is.” He pressed against a rusted emergency exit, but it didn’t budge.

“Door’s jammed,” he gritted.

Leslie stepped beside him and shoved. The metal groaned, but held firm.

“Help me kick it,” Braggs said.

She didn’t hesitate. They reared back and kicked together. Once. Twice. The third time, the hinges snapped, and the door crashed open, daylight spilling in.

They stumbled out into the open air.

The facility’s back lot stretched before them—an old loading dock littered with debris, rusted-out trucks long abandoned under the desert sun.

And at the far end, just past a chain-link fence, Braggs’s truck sat waiting.

“We’re almost there,” Braggs said

Then a voice rang out behind them.

“Hold it.”

Leslie spun.

One of Kincaid’s men—tall, wiry, with a scruffy beard and a pistol leveled at them—stepped out from behind an overturned barrel.

Braggs sighed. “Ain’t you boys got anything better to do?”

“Boss says you don’t leave,” the gunman growled.

Braggs lunged, grabbing a nearby metal pipe and swinging it hard. The gunman fired. Braggs’s attack missed, but the bullet went wide. Braggs dropped the pipe and rolled out of the way.

The gunman aimed again, focused on keeping Braggs in his sights.

It gave Leslie the opportunity to swing behind him and grab the discarded pipe. She swung with all of her might. The heavy metal caught the gunman in the right ear, sending a vibration up the pipe and through Leslie’s arms. She dropped the weapon, but she’d done the job. The gunman collapsed with a nasty crack in his skull that was already bleeding, blood blooming around him where he’d fallen on the pavement.

“Nice swing,” Braggs said as he emerged from behind a rusted truck.

“And to think track was my best sport,” she said.

“Show me.”

They scrambled away just as more voices shouted behind them. Braggs hit the ground running, Leslie right behind him at a dead sprint.

Leslie winced as the rental car lurched over a pothole, the engine groaning in protest.

Kincaid’s men had shot up both vehicles, but Braggs’s truck had taken the worst of it and would never run again. Hers was barely drivable, but it moved—and right now, that was enough.

Braggs sat beside her with one elbow sticking out the window as if they weren’t rattling down a dirt road in a bullet-riddled sedan. His other hand examined a rip in his shirt where a near miss had torn through the fabric.

Leslie said, “You wanna tell me what the hell just happened? Who were those guys?”

Braggs poked a finger through the bullet hole in his shirt. “Well, near as I can tell, we got shot at,” he said.

“No kidding. Why?”

Braggs was quiet for a moment, watching the desert roll past. “Because I owe Bobby Kincaid money,” said.

Leslie raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“Bad decisions.”

“That’s vague,” she said.

“Well, a few years back, I got it in my head that Billy the Kid’s treasure might be buried under that NASA site,” he said. “Old rumors, local legends—lotta talk, no proof. But I was convinced. Spent years pokin’ around, trying to piece it together. Problem is, diggin’ takes money. And Kincaid had some to spare.”

“So you borrowed from him?”

Braggs nodded. “On the promise that if I ever found the treasure, he’d get a cut.” He rubbed his jaw. “Only, I never found squat. Eventually, I figured I was chasin’ a ghost, told Kincaid I was done.”

“Let me guess—he didn’t believe you.”

“Thought I was holdin’ out on him,” he said. “Spent years keepin’ tabs on me, waiting for me to slip up. Figured if I ever found anything, he’d kill me and take it all. At best, he was sure gonna take more than I owed him.”

Leslie blew out a breath. “And you were done. Until now.”

Braggs drummed lightly against the door. “Yeah.”

Leslie glanced over. His usual cocky attitude was gone. He looked thoughtful. Almost hopeful.

She pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped.

“Wait,” she said. “You thought it was a dead end. But I found something, didn’t I?”

Braggs gave her a look that was almost reluctant admiration. “You got a sharp mind, City Girl.”

“What was it?”

Braggs shook his head. “Somethin’ you said—somethin’ you found—stirred up an old thought I never quite put together before.”

Leslie let that sink in. She wasn’t sure what part of their investigation had changed his mind, but one thing was clear—Braggs was back on the hunt.

She sighed. “Well, good luck with that.”

Braggs perked up, more than a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Don’t suppose you wanna stick around and help dig?”

Leslie scoffed, shaking her head. “Not a chance, Indiana.”

But the words didn’t feel as firm as they should have.

The smart thing would be to leave this madness in her rearview, let Braggs chase his wild legends and debts while she went back to investigating stories grounded in reality. But there was something about the way he looked at her—hopeful, expectant—that made her feel not so sure.

He held a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “She broke my heart.”

She gave him a look. “Go find that treasure.”

30

NEW MEXICO

Flynn nearly missed her.

He was on his way back to El Paso to hopefully catch a late flight when he spotted a familiar figure standing next to a broken down Hyundai along the desert road.

Leslie Vanderwahl.

He pulled over, kicked open the door, and stepped out.

“You always make a habit of wandering through the desert alone?” he called.

Leslie turned, raising an eyebrow. “You always make a habit of stalking me?”

Flynn smiled. “Pure coincidence.” He nodded toward her. “You look like hell.”

She dusted off her jacket. “You don’t even know.”

Flynn leaned against the hood of his truck.

Leslie got a better look at him, noticed the cuts and bruises on his face and hands. “What happened to you?” she said.

“Just another day,” he said. “You find what you were looking for?”

Leslie nodded. “Mostly. Cyclops wasn’t what people think. It wasn’t about faking the moon landing. It was a backup plan. A contingency in case the real mission failed. They were worried that the camera equipment might not function properly in space, or that some other emergency might prevent adequate documentation of the event , even if the mission went as planned.”

“A pre-recorded ‘success’ just in case,” Flynn said.

“They filmed the whole thing, complete with Armstrong’s ‘One giant leap for mankind’ line,” Leslie said. “But the real landing worked. So the fake footage was buried. They knew if word leaked out it would fuel the fire of those who said it was a hoax all along.”

“Well, that’s one way to kill a conspiracy theory.”

“Or start a new one,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “Give me a ride? I have one hell of a story for the rental counter at the airport. I’m sure glad I paid for the insurance.”

They climbed into the truck, dust kicking up behind them as Flynn steered onto the highway.

Leslie sat slumped in the passenger seat, dried blood along her temple, one sleeve torn, a crust of dirt on her cheekbone. She didn’t seem to notice—or care.

After a minute, she broke the silence.

“So, how’s Astronaut Barbie?”

Flynn didn’t bite.

Leslie smirked. “You looked cozy in Building 31. I figured I’d let you two have your moment while I got some actual work done.”

Flynn kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut. He wasn’t going to let her drag him into a whole thing about Victoria.

She sighed, propped her boot up on the dash. “You’re not even going to ask what I found?”

“I don’t have to. You’re dying to tell me. All I have to do is wait for you to burst.”

It made her smile. Leslie reached into her bag and patted the bulging folder with mock reverence. “This? This is history, my washed up journalist friend. Firsthand logistics. Cyclops staging plans. Procurement memos. A handwritten note from R. Harkness himself. Story of a lifetime. My story.”

He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t stop himself from glancing over at the thick folder and its 50-plus-year-old secrets. He was dying to get a look.

Flynn pulled off the road without a word and rolled to a stop on the gravel shoulder.

Leslie raised an eyebrow. “Now who’s gonna burst?”

He put the truck in park and held out a hand.

She gave a long, theatrical sigh—then passed the folder over like she was awarding him second place in a race he hadn’t realized he lost.

He flipped through the first few pages, fast—surface scans, timestamps, shipping forms. Good work. But then he slowed and tilted one page toward the light for a better look. Buried among the 1969 dates was a requisition slip stamped 1986. His thumb slid across the bottom line: P. Barrow.

Flynn didn’t say a word. He kept flipping. Found another—different contractor. Different year. Same fund. Same name.

His pulse had already steadied by the time he closed the folder. He handed it back without looking at her.

“You got what you wanted,” he said. “Congratulations.”

He reached behind him and pulled out the photo he’d swiped from Building 31. The reflection in Armstrong’s helmet. The missing patch. The stars.

He handed it to Leslie.

“What’s this?”

“The last piece of the puzzle,” he said. “I’m done with this. You wrap it up. Call the New Mexico Museum of Space History. Ask for Cliff Rollings. He’ll fill in any details you might be missing.”

Leslie studied him for a moment, then took the photo. She tucked it into her bag.

“That’s it?” she asked.

Flynn shrugged. “It’s your story, Vanderwahl. It was from the beginning. You did the heavy lifting. You deserve this one. You cracked Cyclops. Write it. Publish it. Make history.”

Leslie stared at him, then smiled. “You’re getting soft, Flynn.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Leslie hesitated, then held out a hand. Flynn shook it.

He didn’t tell her what he’d seen. He didn’t say Barrow’s name, didn’t say what it meant. He didn’t need to.

He’d just stopped chasing the past. He’d moved on to hunting the future.

31

ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND

The rooftop pool at Barrow’s condo complex was nearly empty, save for a few scattered residents who knew better than to linger too close to the wrong kind of conversation. The water glowed under the soft illumination of underwater lights, rippling lazily as the summer night breeze drifted over the deck.

Admiral Paul Barrow leaned back in a lounge chair, his drink resting on the small table beside him. His feet dangled just over the edge of the pool, close enough to feel the cool mist rising from the surface but not quite touching the water.

Across from him, Chief Petty Officer Travis Calder—call-sign Viper—stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back. Unlike Barrow, he wasn’t relaxed. Viper never relaxed.

Barrow took a sip of his bourbon, savoring it before speaking. “How are my boys doing?”

“Six full squads now, trained and ready,” Viper said. “We can hit six targets at once. Last week’s strikes were textbook. No losses, no complications. We went in, cleaned up, got out before anyone knew what happened.”

Barrow looked up at his soldier. “At ease, Chief. You make me nervous standing there like that.”

Viper adjusted his posture to one that he thought looked relaxed. It didn’t work. The young man was hard-core. Barrow had to respect it.

“Things are getting bumpy, Travis. Media is getting antsy, and Congress is making Danbury nervous.”

“Sir, I don’t understand,” Viper said. “‘Elite strike teams eliminate terror threats with zero casualties’—those headlines write themselves.”

“They certainly should,” Barrow said, motioning to a deck chair nearby. “Sit.”

“What’s the problem, Admiral?”

“People get comfortable, Travis,” Barrow said. “They like to pretend the world isn’t dangerous. That’s the problem. They don’t have the stomach for what keeps them safe. That’s where we come in.”

Viper sat the same way he stood—rigid and alert, waiting for the real reason he’d been called here. Barrow set his drink down and looked at him.

“Put ASP on ice for a few days,” he said. “I have something very important for you to do in the meantime.”

Viper didn’t question it. He never did. He simply waited.

They were the only two there, but Barrow leaned forward and lowered his voice. It was more for emphasis, to let the young man know this was a serious order, as if Viper knew any other kind.

“Reach out to one of our friends on the list,” the admiral said. “Set them up with something dangerous.”

Viper’s expression didn’t change, but there was a shift—a slight adjustment, a subtle tension. Not hesitation, just acknowledgment of the weight behind the words.

“Which group?” Viper asked.

“One with the right profile. One that’ll make an impact,” Barrow said. He picked up his glass again, turning it in his fingers. “Something public. Something loud.”

A slight nod. “How loud?”

“Make it count.”

There was no discussion as to why. They both knew.

Viper had been there since the beginning, handpicked by Barrow to lead ASP. He had brokered every single deal with the terrorists, supplying them with weapons, intel, and funding without them ever realizing who they were really dealing with. They thought they were working through shadowy arms dealers. In reality, they were being led like cattle to slaughter.

That was why ASP had never walked into a trap. That was why ASP always found the targets exactly where they were supposed to be. That was why ASP had zero losses, zero resistance, and one hundred percent success.

Because Barrow had created the enemy. And now, it was time to use them again.

“This one needs to be undeniable,” Barrow continued. “Let them strike something high-profile. Let them believe they’re hitting something important.”

“And then?”

“Then we swarm them. We wipe them out. Take video of the evidence—guns, bombs, drugs, whatever filth we find in their hideout. Wrap it up in a neat little package and hand it to the press.”

He paused, taking another slow sip. “Let’s make the American people good and angry. And maybe just a little bit afraid. The timing is perfect.”

Viper absorbed the instructions, processing the moving parts like the battlefield tactician he was. Then he gave a single, affirmative nod. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Barrow nodded and clapped Viper on the shoulder, a small gesture of approval. He loved the boy like a son.

They were going to set a fire, but it would be a controlled burn, a small, deliberate explosion to justify something much bigger.

32

NEW MEXICO

Leslie was tired and in a hurry to catch a flight. She bounded out of the truck in a rush. He hesitated maybe three seconds. Then he lifted the file from her bag and watched her hustle toward the terminal. She wouldn’t miss it—not right away. He’d scour it, find what he needed, and get it back to her. She’d be pissed, but she’d get over it in about ten years or so.

Maybe.

Flynn didn’t feel guilty. Not even a little.

Flynn spread the contents of the folder across the motel bed, a cheap desk lamp casting a wide arc of yellow light. This was the part he loved.

Not the danger. Not the chases or the guns. This: making sense of chaos. Finding the thing everyone else missed.

He had the Cyclops file—Leslie’s find, her prize. She’d promised to scan and email him the pages she thought mattered. The logistics. The photos. The memos. Everything that screamed hoax to the conspiracy crowd.

Flynn had taken the whole folder, the original. Because he knew better. Everyone else chased the noise. Flynn looked for the quiet thing in the corner of the room no one was watching.

He flipped past the expected stuff—transport orders for rigging equipment, shipping manifests, a letter from someone named Harkness about off-the-books truck convoys. That was the story. The scandal. Leslie’s story.

He moved past all that.

Halfway down the stack, tucked between two pages marked “Non-Active Contractor” and a photocopied map of the New Mexico test range, he saw it: a folded, double-sided finance sheet. It wasn’t labeled. No cover sheet. Just stuck in with the rest.

Flynn laid it flat.

The first half was Cyclops standard—purchase orders from 1969, contractor codes, line-item budgets. Nothing unusual. But the second half bled into something else.

Disbursement Continuity Log – Fiscal Year 1985–86: Account Reference: 091-CYC-STRATEGIC

He frowned.

Cyclops had been shut down in the early ‘70s. Officially. There shouldn’t be anything post-Watergate, let alone Reagan-era. His finger traced a line of funding: $1.6 million allocated to “contractor retention / R&D shelter” through a dummy logistics company in Reston, Virginia.

Concord Logistics.

Flynn opened his laptop, fingers already typing. The name rang a bell.

A 1990s merger with RidgeStar Systems was dissolved then formed anew as a different shell using the same corporate address.

He dug deeper. Two of the names listed on the board had government clearance levels—contracting authority out of Norfolk. Navy.

He clicked faster now and found a line item on a redacted procurement form from 1999. Same slush account. Same routing number. Different program name.

Asp 79-291: Advanced Strategic Positioning. ASP.

It had nothing to do with strike teams—at least not originally. The acronym didn’t start with combat doctrine. It started as a budget line. A slush-funded black project buried in the archives, quietly rebranded as something more palatable when Barrow needed a justification.

The unit—the Advanced Strike Protocol—was just a public-facing evolution. A distraction.

The real purpose had always been about placement. Positioning. A framework for building something in orbit, off the books, under the radar.

Star Shield.

Flynn pulled up a black budget registry he’d scraped years ago from a now-defunct watchdog site. It took ten minutes of cross-referencing, but he found the shell code.

Last movement had been six months ago for $24 million authorized by: Barrow, Paul T.

Flynn stared at the screen. He’d been chasing a fake moon stage setup. But the money that built it? That money was still moving. And Barrow was moving it.

Flynn rubbed his jaw and felt his heart rate increase.

This wasn’t about faked landings. It wasn’t about the past at all. It was about a war machine. And someone was still feeding it—quietly, deliberately, for decades.

He closed the laptop. He needed to tell someone who would understand the scale of what he had just uncovered. Someone who had seen classified systems from the inside. Someone he could trust.

He needed to talk to Victoria.

33

ADEL, GEORGIA

The abandoned warehouse was lit only by a single overhead bulb flickering above their heads, barely cutting through the gloom. Viper stood near the center of the space, hands in his jacket pockets, posture relaxed but his mind sharp. He’d done dozens of these kinds of deals before—on six continents, in war zones and back alleys—it was never comfortable, but he had to maintain a relaxed posture. It was easy to spook someone if you looked nervous, and then things could go sideways in a hurry.

He wasn’t expecting trouble. The buyers had set up this meet, and so far, everything was routine. Ordinarily he wouldn’t agree to meeting that he didn’t arrange personally, but Slugger had staked out the warehouse hours before the meet. No one went in or out.

There were two buyers standing a few yards away near a pallet stacked with rotting wooden crates. The leader, who called himself Ray, had that calm, easy confidence that came from experience. The other, a wiry man with pockmarked skin, leaned against the crates with arms crossed, silent but alert.

Viper knew better than to assume they were alone. There were always more, probably still in the SUV the buyers drove to the warehouse.

Viper’s own men were behind him, covering everything in front of them. Jedi stood to his left, hands resting at his sides but close enough to his sidearm if things got messy. Slugger was a few feet back to his right, near an old rusted forklift, a rifle slung casually over his shoulder. Honda positioned himself by the van, hands near his weapon, the designated driver and fallback.

The conversation started easy, like every deal before it.

Ray nodded toward the duffel bags at Viper’s feet. “Is that all of it?”

Viper nodded once. “M4s, sidearms, full mags. No serials, no paper trail.”

Ray smirked. “Just the way we like it.” He crouched, unzipping one of the bags, checking the contents with a practiced eye. “Nice. You boys move a lot of hardware?”

Viper shrugged. “Enough.”

Ray pulled out one of the Glocks, testing the weight in his hand before nodding in approval. “Not bad. Y’all catch that Bulldogs game last week?”

Viper didn’t blink. “Don’t follow college ball.”

Ray smirked. “Shame. Helluva finish. Quarterback took a nasty hit, but they pulled it out in the end.” He turned the gun over in his hands, then slid it back into the bag. “Anyway, nice night for business. Good weather, no surprises.”

Something about Ray’s voice put an itch between Viper’s shoulder blades. There was something about the way Ray said “no surprises” that felt just a little too rehearsed.

The uneasy feeling in his gut grew.

Viper, wanting to get the deal done, said, “You got the money?”

Ray jerked his chin toward his man. The pockmarked terrorist pulled a backpack from the ground and tossed it at Viper’s feet.

Viper crouched, unzipping it just enough to glimpse the stacks of cash inside. It looked right. He closed it again, giving a small nod.

“It’s good,” he said, standing.

“Of course it is.” Ray grinned. “See, I like when things go smoothly. When everybody’s on the same page.”

Something about his tone changed slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to send a small flicker of unease through Viper’s gut. He glanced at Jedi, who was still watching the buyers like a hawk.

Ray clapped his hands once. “So, tell me something. Y’all run a lot of business through Georgia?”

“What does it matter?”

Ray shrugged. “Call it curiosity. Man likes to know where his merchandise comes from.”

“Merchandise is merchandise,” Viper said.

Ray chuckled again, shaking his head. “See, I don’t know about that. ‘Cause I heard somethin’ real interesting the other day about a shipment that went bad down in Tennessee. Feds got involved. Guns just like these.” He nodded at the duffel bags. “Now, I figure it’s a coincidence. But I’m a careful man.”

The flicker of unease sharpened into something colder. The tone. The pacing. The way Ray kept looking past him.

Viper’s fingers twitched. Something was wrong.

He scanned the room, glancing toward the edges of the warehouse. The shadows stretched long, the darkness between the rusted shelving thick. His gut screamed danger—not from the two men in front of him, but from what he couldn’t see.

His mind started calculating. How many? Where?

Jedi shifted slightly. He must have felt it too.

Viper cleared his throat and stepped back once, just enough to put a little space between them. “We’re done here,” he said smoothly. “Take your merchandise. We’ll be in touch for future orders.”

Ray’s smile didn’t fade, but his eyes changed. “That’s not how this works.”

Ambush.

Viper moved fast. “We’re done,” he said, already taking a step back. “We walk. Now.”

Jedi and Slugger tensed, ready. Honda started toward the van.

The first shot came from behind. Slugger jerked violently as a round punched through his back. Another shot hobbled Jedi. More gunfire exploded in the confined space as two armed men leapt from the SUV.

Viper drew and fired in one motion, dropping the pockmarked sidekick as he reached for his rifle. Jedi was down, not moving. Slugger groaned, clutching his stomach. Honda fired from near the van, hitting one of the terrorists in the leg before ducking behind cover.

Viper fired again, hitting another target center mass. Two down, but the rest were still up, still moving.

“Move!” he barked, grabbing Honda by the collar as he pushed toward the exit.

Honda grunted in pain, stumbling, blood seeping from his arm. Viper pulled him upright, firing blindly over his shoulder as rounds ricocheted off steel beams. Slugger took another round to the neck, and Viper knew he wouldn’t make it. Jedi was already gone.

Viper half-dragged, half-carried Honda across the warehouse floor, moving fast despite the dead weight of his wounded man. The van was their only chance.

Gunfire rattled against the walls. Sparks kicked off metal shelving as rounds tore through the empty space. Honda groaned as he clutched his bleeding arm.

Viper approached the van. Slugger had left the driver’s side door open, planning for a quick getaway if necessary. Viper shoved Honda toward it.

“Get in! Move!”

Honda collapsed into the driver’s seat, pain written all over his face. Viper pivoted just as one of the terrorists rounded the van’s rear. He fired first, dropping the man where he stood.

A second one rushed toward the passenger side.

Viper didn’t think—he ripped open the door and flung himself inside, just as gunfire shredded the van’s side panel. The engine was still running.

“Drive!”

Honda jammed it into reverse, but his bloodied hand slipped on the gearshift. He tried again, this time finding the gear, and the van screeched backward toward the warehouse doors. Bullets chased them down the length of the warehouse, one ripping through the back window, barely missing Viper’s head.

Viper emptied his magazine through the shattered windshield, hitting one of their pursuers. The last thing he saw before Honda spun the van around to face the open doors was Ray, standing in the shadows, holding the bag of money.

He was still smiling.

34

SOUTH GEORGIA

The van lurched hard as Honda jerked the wheel, barely keeping all four wheels on what served as pavement on the winding Georgia backroad. His knuckles were white, blood slicking the steering wheel where it seeped down from the wound in his arm.

Behind them, the terrorists’ SUV roared in pursuit, bullets rattling against the van’s body and frame, which were both reinforced with steel for such a contingency.

Viper cursed under his breath, ejecting a spent magazine from his pistol. He inserted another. He had plenty of ammo, the van being a rolling arsenal, but his 9mm wasn’t cutting it against these bastards and their SUV.

Another burst of gunfire. The back window shattered. Bits of glass burst toward him.

Honda let out a ragged breath. “I can’t⁠—”

“Keep driving,” Viper ordered. His tone had shifted—he was the Chief again, no longer pretending to be some two-bit gunrunner. He was back in combat and God bless him, he loved it.

Honda grit his teeth and floored the accelerator as he approached a straight stretch of road cutting between a forest. The twists and turns had been the equalizer, making it tougher for their pursuers to get a clear shot, but now the terrorists would be able to line them up for a kill shot.

Viper was done playing defense. He crawled into the back of the van, unlatched a metal crate and lifted the lid. He smiled at the sight of an M-60 machine gun.

Honda glanced at him in the rearview, eyes going wide. “You gotta be kidding me⁠—”

Viper wasn’t. He racked the bolt, set up his position, and kicked open the van’s back doors with one boot.

Wind roared inside as the doors swung wide, revealing the pursuing SUV less than three car lengths behind. The gunmen inside were still firing, but they weren’t ready for what was about to happen. Their eyes went wide when they saw what Viper had for them, but it was too late.

He squeezed the trigger, and the M-60 roared to life. A wall of gunfire erupted, ripping into the SUV with a relentless blizzard of 7.62mm rounds. The windshield exploded inward, the front passenger’s chest snapping back in a mist of red spray as bullets chewed through flesh and bone.

The hood popped up and tore off, flipping into the air as the vehicle weaved back and forth to avoid the onslaught. Smoke poured from the ruined engine, but momentum kept it rolling forward.

Viper didn’t let up. He tracked the SUV with tracers, his rounds punching through the chassis like paper. One of the men in the back tried to climb forward, desperate to avoid the hail of deadly metal. Viper took him out with a burst to the spine.

The vehicle fishtailed wildly, hit a ditch, and launched into the air. The SUV flipped twice and slammed into a tree, crumpling on impact.

And still, Viper kept firing.

A steady stream of rounds poured into the wreckage until the gas tank ruptured⁠—

Boom!

A fireball erupted, swallowing what was left of the SUV. Flames licked at the treetops, black smoke billowing into the sky. Viper eased off the trigger; the M-60’s barrel was smoking. He turned, clapped Honda on the shoulder. They’d made it.

“That was excessive,” Honda said with a laugh that relieved the tension.

Viper cracked his neck and set the still-smoking M-60 aside. “No such thing.”

He glanced back at the wreckage, flames still reaching for the sky.

Things were about to get really messy for ASP.

35

FAYETTE COUNTY, GEORGIA

Viper drove the van to the safe house south of Atlanta. It took almost five hours because he took back roads rather than risk driving a bullet-ridden van on Interstate 75. Honda was in the back, stable, but in dire need of medical attention.

The safe house wasn’t much to look at—a windowless concrete building tucked behind an old scrapyard, the kind of place no one paid attention to. Which was exactly the point.

Viper pulled the van around the back, cut the engine, and hopped out. Blood stained the floor where Honda had slumped against the cargo bay; his breathing was shallow.

A metal door swung open. Two men emerged—Barrow’s people. They didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Get him inside,” one of them said.

Viper nodded and helped haul Honda out. He barely made a sound, though his face was gray from blood loss. They got him inside, past a makeshift surgical setup—nothing official, nothing traceable.

As soon as Honda was settled, Barrow stepped in.

His eyes swept the room once before locking onto Viper.

“Talk.”

Viper grabbed a rag off a nearby table and wiped blood—not his—from his forearm.

“It was an ambush,” he said.

Barrow didn’t react.

Viper continued: “The shooters in back—they were already there. No one entered the site before the meet. Slugger watched it all day. That means they were inside the warehouse before we ever got there. Maybe for days, I don’t know. It was sloppy. I should have demanded a different location for the handoff.”

Barrow waved him off. “Ray set you up. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah.” Viper leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “And we lost two men because of it. But here’s the real problem—if local law enforcement finds Jedi and Slugger, IDs them, then this gets loud. And I mean really loud.”

Barrow crossed his arms. He already knew that.

“So we go back,” Viper said. “Retrieve the bodies. Then we go on the hunt. We take down Ray, get some revenge along with our money and our guns.”

A long silence.

Barrow, contemplating the situation, finally met Viper’s gaze. “I understand you want payback. I would too.”

Viper seemed to sense where this was going, and Barrow didn’t expect him to like it. “We can’t let this go, sir.”

“You’re making this personal,” Barrow said.

“I lost two of my men,” Viper said. “That’s as personal as it gets.”

Barrow nodded once, slowly. He understood. But understanding and agreeing were two different things.

“This is what’s happening,” he said, voice calm, absolute. “We retrieve the bodies. That’s the first priority. We can’t allow them to be ID’d and have ASP attached to selling guns to terrorists.”

Viper curled his fingers into a fist, then unclenched. “And Ray?”

“We have tabs on Ray, Chief,” Barrow said. “We will deal with him later, in the most appropriate way possible. I promise you that. Ray doesn’t walk away from this.”

Viper wanted the kill, Barrow could see it—the raw, unfiltered soldier in him still screaming for retribution. But Viper had been trained well. He knew how to follow orders. He gave a sharp nod. Not happy. Not agreeing. But accepting. Doing his job.

“You’ll go back tonight; take a squad in. Full night-op gear. Silent entry. Get in, extract the bodies, and get out clean.”

“Yes, sir.”

Barrow studied him a second longer, then stood. “Dismissed.”

He watched as Viper turned on his heels and walked out without another word.

Barrow had no doubt Viper would follow orders—for now. But if it came to Plan B, Barrow wasn’t sure his top soldier would be so eager to comply.

36

ADEL, GEORGIA

The Blackhawk’s rotors sliced through the night air, the wind whipping violently as Viper and his team hovered over the South Georgia landscape. Below, the abandoned warehouse sat in eerie stillness, its exterior bathed in moonlight and the occasional flicker of a distant streetlamp.

Time was against them.

Clad in full night-op gear, Viper tightened his harness as the side doors slid open.

Reaper, Nomad, Torch, and Echo sat across from him—trained professional soldiers, just as locked in as he was. No unnecessary chatter. They knew the job. Fast in. Fast out.

“Target in sight,” the helo pilot said. “No movement outside. We’re at the LZ.”

“Good.” Viper braced himself. “Let’s go.”

One by one, they rappelled down the ropes, landing in the soft dirt just a few hundred yards from the warehouse. The Blackhawk peeled off immediately, vanishing into the night.

The team moved like shadows, gliding toward the structure.

Viper gestured to Torch to take point, leading them to the south entrance—the same one Viper and his team had walked through just hours before. His stomach coiled at the thought of Jedi and Slugger lying somewhere inside, bodies cooling in the darkness.

They weren’t leaving them behind. Not like this. But then⁠—

A problem.

Torch, crouched ahead, held up a fist. Viper immediately dropped to a knee, scanning the area. Then he saw it.

A patrol cruiser sat just outside the front entrance. Rollers flashing, engine running.

Viper muttered a curse. Not good.

The police officer stood outside his vehicle, flashlight in one hand, radio in the other. He wasn’t alarmed—just doing his job. Which meant they had a decision to make.

Viper glanced at Reaper, who simply gave a slight nod. Reaper was a highly trained sniper. It would be an easy shot from this distance. A quiet kill, easy cleanup. No witnesses, no problems.

Viper watched the police officer and looked back at Reaper. All he had to do was give the order. But something in his gut held him back.

This wasn’t the enemy. This was a cop doing what cops do—checking an abandoned building for squatters or vandals.

Viper wasn’t here to kill first responders.

He clenched his jaw and motioned for Reaper to lower his weapon.

“Stand down,” he said through comms.

“Say again?” Echo asked.

Viper said, “We don’t touch him. Mission’s burned.”

As if to drive the point home, the radio on the police officer’s hip crackled—he’d called in backup. Must have already been inside the building and saw the carnage.

Seconds later, red and blue lights flashed in the distance coming this way.

“Abort,” Viper said. “Now.”

No hesitation. No second guessing. The team immediately withdrew, silent as ghosts, disappearing into the darkness.

By the time the first squad car rolled up to the warehouse, Viper and his team were already gone.

37

FAYETTE COUNTY, GEORGIA

Viper stepped into the safe house; his boots barely made a sound against the concrete floor, but Barrow had already noticed him.

The admiral sat at a steel table, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, the other flipping through a file. Calm, controlled, almost disinterested.

That set Viper on edge. He dropped his gear bag near the door.

“Mission’s burned, Sir,” he said. “Law enforcement was already on-site.”

Barrow turned a page, unhurried. “I heard.”

Viper waited for Barrow to continue. The admiral said nothing.

“No casualties,” Viper said. “No engagement. We pulled out before we were made.”

Barrow nodded as if he’d already known that.

Viper narrowed his eyes. “Sir?”

Barrow finally set the file down. His expression remained unreadable. “Is there more, Chief?”

Viper clenched his jaw. “What now, Sir?”

Barrow leaned back in his chair, taking a slow sip of coffee. “You expected anger.”

Viper didn’t answer.

Barrow studied him for a moment, then exhaled. Not frustrated. Not disappointed. Just patient.

“It was always a long shot,” Barrow said. “Cops showing up just meant we had to move to Plan B a little sooner. It’s not your fault. You did your best.”

Viper stiffened.

Plan B.

He hadn’t been briefed on a Plan B. And that got under his skin.

“The real problem isn’t retrieving Jedi and Slugger,” Barrow said. “It’s making sure no one looks too hard at what they were doing.”

Viper felt a knot tighten in his gut.

Barrow continued, tone even, matter-of-fact. “The moment local law enforcement ID’s their bodies as ASP, we have a mess. Congressional hearings. Journalists sniffing around. Questions we don’t want answered.” He finally looked at Viper. “So, we ensure they don’t get asked.”

Viper’s stomach turned. He knew what was coming before Barrow even said it.

“We let Jedi and Slugger take the fall,” Barrow said. “We get ahead of this, make them look like a couple of bad eggs that went rogue. That means drugs, black-market weapons, ties to people worse than Ray.”

Viper kept his face neutral but he was burning inside.

“You’re talking about a smear job,” he said.

“I’m talking about protecting this unit.” Barrow tapped the file. “I’m talking about the things we must be willing to do to protect this nation. Two dead operators with no oversight are a liability; we could get shut down. We need to cut ourselves loose from them. There’s even a good chance we can wipe their names from the ASP records. We’ve got people working on it right now.”

Viper felt his jaw tighten.

Barrow stared at him, analyzing him, waiting.

After a moment, the admiral spoke: “Is there a problem, Chief?”

Viper paused longer than intended. “No, Sir,” he said.

But for the first time, he wasn’t sure which side he wanted to be on.

38

ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND

Admiral Paul Barrow stepped out of the black SUV, buttoning his coat to ward off the early spring chill. He took three steps before the reporters surged.

“Admiral Barrow⁠—!”

“Sir, do you have a comment on the two dead operatives identified in the Georgia arms deal?”

“Were Staff Sergeant Reyes and Petty Officer First Class Lowell part of ASP?”

Barrow didn’t break stride, forcing the reporters to hustle alongside him, their breath visible in the cold air. With his eyes forward, he walked like a man with a purpose while flanked by his aide and two security officers. But the question grew louder, more pointed.

“Are you running black ops on U.S. soil?” one reporter asked.

“Admiral, are you deploying military assets against civilians?” inquired another.

He stopped. The media scrum closed in on him like kids muscling to be the first one at the candy counter. The security detail stepped in, but Barrow raised a hand. He turned toward the cameras, chin elevated to accentuate his rectangular jaw.

“I’ll say this once, and I’ll say it clearly,” Barrow said. “The two individuals identified in the recent criminal investigation were not sworn members of the Advance Strike Protocol unit. They were applicants. Trainees. They didn’t make the cut. ASP is a multi-branch special operations unit that invites the best of the best that the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, Coast Guard, and Space Force have to offer. It’s a highly competitive and strenuous training program to earn the right to be an ASP operative. These men, although respected in their individual branches of service, I’m sorry to say did not make the cut.”

A murmur spread through the group of reporters. Phones raised, recorders out.

Barrow continued. “Unfortunately, not everyone handles failure with grace. We believe these men may have acted out of resentment—attempting to profit from stolen resources or personal contacts made during their brief time in training. They did not act under orders. They were not ASP.”

“Sir, are you confirming they sold weapons to terrorists?”

Barrow eyeballed the wiry man who asked the question. “I’m confirming that ASP does not tolerate corruption, betrayal, or criminal behavior of any kind. These men were dismissed for cause.”

A reporter called out, “So, these men were dismissed prior to the incident in Georgia?”

Another question from the pack: “Is there paperwork that backs up your claim?”

Barrow felt his face redden.

“There is no claim,” he fumed. “These men did not make the cut. They washed out. No one from ASP was anywhere near that warehouse. Those two soldiers acted alone, and in doing so dishonored themselves and the branches they served.”

A flurry of questions continued to be hurled toward Barrow, but he didn’t hear any of them. He pushed his way through the mass of journalists and stormed off as his security officers prevented anyone from following.

The door crashed shut behind him followed by deafening silence.

Barrow stood near the window, watching the flagpole sway against the gray morning sky. He slung his coat over the back of a chair and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. His body felt cold, but it wasn’t the weather. It was the kind of cold that starts in the pit of your gut and doesn’t go away.

He’d practiced the line in his head a dozen times. He hadn’t liked it then, and he liked it even less now.

They didn’t make the cut.

He scratched at his jaw. The stubble itched—he hadn’t shaved this morning. He leaned forward toward the window, resting his knuckles on the sill.

Slugger—Chief Petty Officer Lowell—had been a pain in Barrow’s ass but the soldier was brave. Jedi—Staff Sergeant Reyes—was sharp and one of the best tactical minds in the new batch. They were good soldiers. Not just good. They were damn near perfect fighting men, and they had been loyal. Loyal to him. Loyal to the unit. They died carrying out his orders.

Those two men weren’t terrorists. They didn’t deserve this. But they were dead. And the program had to survive.

Barrow, like all men in charge of warriors sent to battle, had an unfair burden upon him. In order to achieve the ultimate victory, a commanding officer had to be willing to sacrifice the lives of his men. For the greater good, Barrow had to keep his eyes on the big picture.

It was sometimes a thankless job, but many before him had handled worse. Or had they? He thought of America’s wars and the many battles that had claimed the lives of so many brave, young fighting men and women. But those soldiers only had to die once. Jedi and Slugger? They died twice.

And Barrow pulled the trigger. These men didn’t even get to die for a cause. Their names and legacies were sacrificed to protect the mission. It was unfair, and Barrow knew it. But there was no other option.

He turned from the window and walked to his desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out a framed photo—one taken at the beginning, before the unit had a name. The photo was snapped long before the press and the hearings and the compromises. Just a handful of men in battered fatigues, standing in the dirt with rifles slung over their backs and pride in their eyes.

Slugger was in that photo. So was Jedi.

Barrow looked at them in silence. His thumb brushed the edge of the frame. “I’m sorry.”

He set the photo back in the drawer and closed it.

The mission would go on.

39

HOUSTON, TEXAS

Flynn spotted her from across the room, seated alone in a booth against the far wall. The place had a vibe—low light, dark wood, and old jazz playing from recessed speakers. A few other patrons murmured side-by-side along the bar.

He paused a while before crossing the room.

When he got to her he said, “Still nursing the same drink after twenty minutes? You’re slipping.”

“I was waiting for you to stop pretending you weren’t watching me from across the room.”

“Is that what I was doing?”

She gestured to the empty seat across from her. “Still playing the curious journalist?”

“Still playing the innocent astronaut?”

They sat in silence for a while.

“You left me at the airport,” he said.

Victoria looked down at her glass. Her fingers adjusted its position by a fraction of an inch, like she needed to do something with her hands.

“I did,” she said.

Flynn kept his voice level. “You told me the photo was misfiled. That it was just a promotional shot taken after the mission.”

“I know what I said.”

“I’ve seen the lighting. The angles. The props. That wasn’t post-mission.”

Victoria looked up. Her expression was unreadable, but something behind her eyes had gone distant.

“I got a message,” she said. “Just before boarding. Orders.”

“Orders? From who?”

“I had to go. It wasn’t optional.”

Flynn watched her face. Her jaw was set, but not rigid. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t defensive. She was holding something back, and doing it well.

He leaned forward slightly. “Classified?”

She didn’t answer. Not yes. Not no.

Flynn exhaled, sat back in his chair, and studied her.

Victoria nodded once. “That’s as much as I can say.”

He looked at her, trying to decide if that was enough. He wanted it to be. Every instinct he had told him to dig, to press her, to unravel whatever thread she had just handed him. But he didn’t. Flynn simply gave a small nod. That was enough. The tension that had lingered between them since the airport finally started to loosen.

He looked down at his drink, turned it once with a quiet clink of glass on wood. “I need to show you something.”

Victoria didn’t move, but her attention sharpened. She rested both hands lightly on her glass, as if to anchor herself.

Flynn reached into his jacket and pulled out the Cyclops file. “I came across this in New Mexico. It was filed away in a box marked with Apollo-era documentation, but it doesn’t belong with the rest of it.”

He pulled out the key pages and laid them flat before tapping the first page.

“This is Cyclops,” he said. “Not a training operation. Not some internal PR exercise. A full-scale, staged environment. Set lighting grids. Simulated terrain. Closed logistics loops. It was built to look like the lunar surface—but not for the astronauts. Not for engineering. This was theater, theater meant to fool the public.”

Victoria nodded.

“At first, I thought it was part of the moon hoax theory—that maybe someone had stumbled onto this and made the wrong assumption. But the more I dug into it, the clearer it became. This wasn’t some amateur cover-up. It was professional. Military-grade. Built to look just plausible enough to explain away questions—and to hide something else.”

He flipped to the next page.

“The money trail doesn’t end when Cyclops wraps. It shifts. Late eighties into the early nineties, the budget line items move—same routing codes, new shell companies. Nobody catches it, because everything’s funneled through Cold War cleanup accounts. They renamed Cyclops as Star Shield in 1989.”

He tapped the bottom of the document, not bothering to hide the satisfaction in his voice. “Guess who signed off.”

Victoria leaned in. Her eyes dropped to the signature line: Barrow, Paul T.

“I’ve seen him on the news,” Flynn said. “That admiral with the tactical units. ASP raids. High-profile takedowns. Everyone thinks he’s saving the country.”

He took a slow breath.

“I don’t think ASP is what it looks like.”

Victoria’s fingers bounced nervously on the rim of her glass. “What is it, then?”

“I think it’s weapons-based,” Flynn said. “Strategic. Orbital. Something built to exist outside the traditional chain of command. It’s been quietly funded for years—across multiple administrations without much oversight. I’ve just had time to glance through the file, but what’s in there is not surveillance. It’s not a deterrent. It’s a first-strike asset.”

Victoria’s voice was quiet. “And you think Barrow’s the architect?”

“I think he’s the one keeping it alive.”

She looked at the pages again, then up at him.

“Who else have you shown this to?”

Flynn shook his head. “No one.”

“You’re sure?”

He nodded, though he quietly wondered if he’d just made a mistake.

“Have you found any specs?” she asked. “Satellite architecture? Orbital mapping?”

Flynn gave her a look. “That’s pretty specific.”

She shrugged. “If it’s weapons-based, those are logical first questions.”

He paused, then nodded slowly. “No specs, at least not yet. But if it’s operational, someone’s got launch records. Somebody’s tracking something.”

“What are you planning to do next?”

“Keep digging,” he said. “Cross-reference Barrow’s public appearances. See who’s funding the latest ASP appropriations. Maybe track down someone inside.”

Victoria gave a soft nod, as if she were weighing it like any concerned citizen would.

Flynn watched her carefully. “You think I’m chasing shadows?”

“I think you’re onto something,” she said. “And I think you’re going to need help.”

Flynn allowed himself the smallest smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Victoria smiled back. It was a small smile, carefully placed. The kind that gave nothing away.

Flynn held her gaze a moment longer. Something in her expression shifted—but not enough to name. Maybe it was tension. Maybe it was thought. Maybe it was nothing.

He decided not to question it.

He had trusted her once. He wanted to again.

40

CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA

Viper sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, his hands holding a framed photo. Four men, standing in the dirt, squinting into the sun. Him, Jedi, Slugger, and Honda. No uniforms, no insignia. Just bruises, taped knuckles, and dust-covered sweats.

It was taken after their final ASP training op—Barrow’s little crucible. No sleep or food to go along with simulated capture, evasion, and ambush. They’d been dropped in the mountains with nothing but what they could carry and a single shared radio that didn’t work. Barrow had watched from a drone feed and let the exercise run hot for seventy-two hours. They bled for each other out there, earning trust the hard way.

Jedi had made some off-hand joke about writing a group memoir. Slugger swore he’d call it Four Dumb Bastards and a Map That Lied. Honda just laughed. Viper hadn’t said anything. Just nodded once when Barrow told them they passed.

He held the frame now, gently, like it might break. Slugger and Jedi were gone. Honda was laid up. And Barrow—the man who built the squad—had tossed their bodies aside like trash.

He set the photo down, slower than he needed to, then stood and crossed the room.

In the hall closet, behind the coats, was a locked case. Inside: his sidearm, a suppressor, two spare mags, and a burner phone already preloaded with numbers that didn’t trace. He zipped it into a plain black duffel. Nothing fancy. Just what he needed.

Viper stepped back into the bedroom and looked once more at the photo. Four men, standing in the dirt. One of them still had something left to do.

He turned away from the photo and paced into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and closed it again, deciding he wasn’t hungry as he first thought. Rubbing a hand over his scalp, he stopped at the back of his neck where the scar still ran from ear to spine—a gift from an op in Yemen. The price of obedience. He never once questioned it.

Viper had come from the Navy. Recon swimmer, then SEAL, then something past that, something without a name. When Barrow pulled him aside six years ago, it wasn’t a request. It was a direction.

“We’re building something that doesn’t exist,” Barrow had said. “And I want you at the center of it.”

That’s how the Admiral operated. Calm, controlled, never with flowery speeches or empty praise. Just a clear path and the unspoken promise that it mattered. Viper had believed him every single time.

ASP was the unit they built from the bones of old enemies and burned missions. Soldiers from all branches—clean records, dirty experience. They operated without interference or visibility. Nobody knew ASP existed. Nobody outside the inner circle got to ask why or how. They followed orders, completed objectives, and disappeared.

Viper didn’t ask questions. Never had to. When Slugger joined, fresh from a SEAL team that barely tolerated him, Viper kept him in check. When Jedi showed up, all Marine intensity and jokes that didn’t land, Viper let him find his place. Honda was last—quiet, efficient, and scary good with anything that moved. That was the team. They weren’t brothers, but they bled like it.

And now two were dead, left behind. Barrow had promised them coverage, promised they’d be brought home if things went sideways. But when the dust cleared, no exfil came. There wasn’t even a press release, not even a warning to keep quiet. Just silence. Honda had taken a round to the chest during the ambush—should’ve died on the spot, but somehow made it out, though just barely. Now he was off the radar, laid up somewhere Viper didn’t have access to.

Viper had waited for word. Waited for Barrow to say something—anything. An explanation. A command. Instead, the Admiral had leaned into the lie and called them liabilities. He went even further, suggesting they’d gone rogue. Mentioning the idea was enough to let reporters dig through their pasts and paint them as problems that solved themselves.

It didn’t add up. Viper could’ve stomached the betrayal, but this was worse in some ways. For him, it was the erasure, the way Barrow had pretended they never mattered.

He walked to the window and stared out at the darkness beyond the glass. He didn’t have a plan. Not yet anyway. That was the part eating at him. Revenge came easy when you had a target.

He stepped back from the window and took a breath. The thought came and went before he could stop it. Barrow. The man who gave the order. The one who covered up their deaths. If anyone deserved to pay, it was him. The idea itself felt like crossing a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. Thinking it was enough to shame the uniform.

Viper had followed orders his entire life. Chain of command wasn’t just a rule—it was the spine of everything he believed. You didn’t turn your weapon on a superior. You didn’t question the mission once it started. You obeyed, executed, endured. That was the code.

Barrow had made him, picked him, trusted him. And even now, with Slugger and Jedi in the ground and Honda barely clinging on, some part of Viper still wanted to believe there was a reason behind it all. Some bigger picture he just wasn’t seeing.

He ground his teeth. Killing Barrow wasn’t just impossible—it was wrong. It would make him no better than the men they used to hunt. Terrorists, all of them. He wasn’t that.

But Ray? Ray was different. Ray was still alive. The bastard who’d set the ambush. Intel had him off the grid, but not far. Maybe Texas, maybe further south. Viper had names and a few thin leads. He just needed to move.

Viper strode to the closet and pulled out the case again. It was time to finish what someone else had failed to.

Three days later, Viper lay prone on a rocky ridge two hundred yards out, watching through a scope. No patches were on the sleeves or flags painted on helmets. But the discipline was there—movement patterns, guard rotations, callouts every fifteen minutes. This wasn’t a ragtag militia camp; it was a terrorist cell with real structure. He’d seen this before—Iraq, Syria, Kandahar. Only this time, it was Texas.

The compound was a run-down ranch tucked deep in the scrubland, ringed by floodlights, barbed wire, and rusted livestock fencing. Once a cattle operation, the buildings had been repurposed—storage containers turned into bunkhouses, a battered barn converted into a garage or armory. The place hummed with activity. Men patrolled in pairs, rifles slung, radios clipped to their vests.

Viper kept his breathing slow. One hand rested on his rifle stock, the other on the dirt. Wind steady. Clear line of sight to the south side of the main building.

He’d hit camps like this before. Night raids, four-man entries, coordinated strikes. Jedi breaching the door, Honda on rear security, Slugger at his side. Clean, fast, controlled. No survivors.

But tonight, it was just him.

He marked six armed guards, maybe more inside. One patrol vehicle, two external cameras, spotty radio discipline. Not perfect, but still too many to engage head-on. A frontal assault would be suicide.

He shifted the scope slightly. There—on the porch—Ray.

Sitting like he owned the place. Talking with a bearded man over beers. No body armor, just confidence. He looked older than in the surveillance photo, but not softer. The man had blood on his hands and didn’t seem the least bit haunted by it.

Viper tracked Ray’s movement for ten minutes, memorizing the man’s routine. The back door led to a hallway, probably a kitchen. Less traffic. A generator buzzed near the outbuilding, masking sound.

Viper moved.

A low crawl to the fence and then bolt cutters from the pack. Snip. He crawled through the gap and stayed in the dark, slipping between shadows, beneath floodlights, past the first two patrols without incident.

He paused by the generator, then ducked into the barn. Inside he found crates, fuel drums, and racks of rifles—the very weapons they’d intended to sell to the terrorists.

The original plan had been to make contact under the guise of rogue soldiers selling U.S. military hardware, then track the buyers back to their base. Viper and his team would set up an ASP raid, hit the camp clean, and walk away as American heroes. It was theater—creating their own enemy as part of an elaborate, deadly public relations stunt.

But everything went sideways when Ray’s crew found the nerve to strike first. The ambush tore through them. Jedi and Slugger were killed. Viper barely managed to drag Honda out alive.

He ignored the guns and slid along the interior wall until he reached the main building.

Viper heard laughter through the walls. Voices followed—low, steady. Music played from a speaker near the front. He crouched in the dark, counting steps as they moved past. A door creaked open and then closed.

Two men were gone, while Ray and one other remained inside.

The hallway was narrow, walls lined with cheap plywood and taped-up propaganda posters. He moved silently.

He eased through the rear door, suppressed SIG P226 already drawn, fitted with a compact titanium can he’d tuned himself. Subsonic rounds—less punch, but quiet and clean, the kind of setup you didn’t bring unless you knew exactly what needed to happen.

Ray was alone in the kitchen, back turned, reaching into a fridge.

Viper raised his pistol. “Turn around.”

Ray froze. Then did as he was told.

He looked at Viper and blinked once. “You.”

Viper stepped closer, steady. “You remember Slugger?”

Ray didn’t answer.

“Jedi?”

Ray looked down. “You came all this way to⁠—”

The shot was quiet. Ray dropped, dead before he hit the floor.

Viper stood over the body. No satisfaction. No peace. But it was done.

Blood pooled under the dead man’s chin, seeping out across the worn tile. Viper didn’t look away even though he wanted to. Something in him twisted at the sight—the same part of him that used to feel pride in a clean kill, back when missions had rules and enemies had flags.

Ray had no flag. Just blood on his hands and a pile of corpses in his wake.

Viper holstered the pistol and moved.

The hallway was still empty. He ghosted through it then checked the front windows. Outside, two men were running from the barracks. Three more spilled from the garage, confused, half-dressed, rifles in hand but no target in sight. None of them knew yet what had happened.

But they soon would. Viper would make sure of it.

He slipped back into the barn and crouched near the munitions stack. He knew what the terrorists had; he’d sold it to them. The lighting was low, one flickering bulb swaying from the rafters. It reeked of fuel, sweat, and old canvas. He peeled open a crate with his knife and found what he was looking for: two M18A1 claymores and a satchel charge wrapped in black plastic, still marked, still live.

Barrow had insisted the weapons be real, explaining that it had to be to make the ruse convincing. If only he could see what it bought them now.

Viper set to work, fast but careful. He placed the first claymore just inside the barn entrance, angled to catch the kill zone at waist height. He packed the second near the fuel drums, just under a rack of jerry cans—enough to torch half the camp if they ignited right.

The satchel charge he saved for the house. He circled wide, keeping to the shadows. He reached the porch, slid under it on his stomach, and pressed the charge against the support beam near the center post. He wrapped the cord around it twice, tightened the blasting cap, and fed the det cord through the dry earth until he reached cover.

He ran the line back to the ridge, knees low, lungs tight. The wind had shifted—carrying the smoke of distant fires from somewhere far off. Maybe a field burn, maybe something else. Down below, the compound was beginning to stir. Flashlights clicked on. Shouts echoed between the buildings. Still no structure. No command. No sense of what had hit them.

He dropped flat against the ground, heart pounding against the dirt. His hands moved on instinct, connecting the leads, checking the timer.

Three minutes.

He watched the porch. A man stepped out, confused, rifle loose in his grip. Another came behind him, barking orders. But it wasn’t Ray. Not anymore.

Viper blinked sweat from his eyes.

He remembered the last time he did this. Not long ago. Different country, different objective. Jedi had been next to him then, chewing sunflower seeds, grinning like they were on a training op. Slugger had been dragging extra gear and complaining about how hot it was. Honda had said nothing, just sat on overwatch with that dead-straight focus of his.

This time it was just him.

He reached into his pocket and pressed the trigger.

The first blast lit the barn like a sunrise—white-hot, fast, and loud. The concussion rolled across the scrubland, rattling the ground beneath him. He watched the second charge tear through the fuel drums, sending a mushroom of flame and debris into the air. In the distance, he heard screams. Then the porch erupted—timed just as the others ran toward it. The front of the house disintegrated in a burst of fire and splinters.

Bodies flew. Then silence.

No return fire. No commands. Just the crackle of burning wood and the long, empty howl of desert wind through what was left.

Viper didn’t smile or nod. He just watched until the smoke spread across the ground before billowing above him.

Then he stood, dusted the grit from his gloves, and started walking.

He didn’t look back.

41

HOUSTON, TEXAS

Flynn stayed on the couch longer than he meant to. He knew it, and so did she. They were days past the point where it would’ve made sense for him to leave. He wasn’t just still sleeping on the couch—he was living on it.

His jacket hung on the back of one of her dining room chairs. His laptop charger was plugged into the outlet near the bookshelf. Empty coffee mugs—some his, some hers—were scattered around the living room, fighting for space with half-folded laundry, stacks of open books, and a tangle of unsorted mail.

Her townhouse was lived-in, cluttered, half-organized, and half-forgotten, a place that looked like someone had tried to keep it together and lost interest halfway through. Flynn had caught himself tidying up once or twice. Not out of courtesy but out of instinct.

She let him stay. That was the part he couldn’t quite figure out. She didn’t ask when he planned to leave, but neither did he bring it up. They danced around it with dry humor—she called it “containment,” he called it “logistical efficiency”—both pretending it had something to do with the investigation into the photo. Neither of them believed that anymore, especially since that investigation was over—had been over for days.

But every night he stayed, every morning she didn’t object—it made the air between them feel tighter. He hadn’t decided yet if that was a good thing.

She disappeared into the kitchen, and Flynn stared at the spot where she’d been sitting just a minute earlier. He noticed the slight indent her leg had made in the cushion, the faint scent of her shampoo still hanging in the air. The kiss had caught them both off guard, but it hadn’t felt out of place. Neither of them brought it up afterward, yet it lingered between them—unspoken, undeniable, shaping every glance and pause since.

Flynn couldn’t deny that he had fallen for her.

But that didn’t mean he trusted her.

Victoria returned with two beers. She handed him one then sat back down across from him.

“You’re a journalist,” she said, twisting off her cap. “Aren’t you supposed to be filing stories and sleeping on a mattress with springs poking through?”

“That was the old job,” he said. “Now I chase conspiracy theories, wear the same shirt three days in a row, and park my RV wherever a city won’t tow it.”

“You have an RV?”

“Technically, yes. Realistically, it’s closer to a floating storage unit with mold.”

It made her smile.

From across the room, the TV caught Flynn’s eye. A news anchor, grave-faced, stood beside two blurry headshots—military-style photos, low-res, probably taken off some leaked personnel file. The chyron read:

TWO U.S. OPERATIVES KILLED IN GEORGIA RAID—PENTAGON SILENT.

The screen cut to a fast clip of a big man in uniform brushing past a crowd of reporters. Square shoulders, civilian clothes, scowl like stone.

The TV identified the man as Admiral Paul Barrow, the head of the Advanced Strike Protocol unit.

Flynn let out a short breath and shook his head. “I’d hate to be that guy.”

Victoria, still curled up on the couch, looked over. “Why do you say that?”

Flynn watched the screen a second longer, then muted it. “Something doesn’t smell right. The guy’s dirty. You can see it in how fast he shuts down the questions.”

Victoria didn’t answer. She was still watching the screen, even though the story had moved on. Her posture had changed—less relaxed now. More focused.

Flynn drank his beer and let the moment settle. Then he said, “What do you think of ASP and this Admiral’s war on domestic terrorism?”

Victoria looked toward the television, though the news segment had already moved on. “What about it?”

“I don’t know,” Flynn said. “They’ve been built up as this perfect strike team—quick, clean, untouchable, saving the country from terrorism. But now two of them are dead in some blown operation and their C.O. is snapping at reporters like it’s personal.”

She gave a small shrug. “I imagine the admiral is under a lot of pressure. Think about it. Everything’s been going well and now all of a sudden there’s some controversy. It can’t be easy. And then you get the press poking into every little thing.”

“Sure. But a man like Barrow isn’t bothered by reporters. I’ve known enough macho military men at the top of the food chain. They don’t sweat much, unless they’re doing something off book.”

Victoria didn’t look at him. She reached for her beer, took a small sip, then set it back down. “You sound suspicious.”

“I sound curious. Big difference.”

She shifted to sit on her knees facing him. “What exactly are you curious about?”

“The whole setup feels too clean. Barrow’s the face they put in front of the cameras, and ASP’s the sledgehammer behind the curtain. You don’t use a tool like that unless you’re willing to crack a few floorboards.”

Victoria tilted her head. “You think they’re operating without oversight?”

“I think they’re operating without accountability.”

She didn’t answer right away. He watched her take another sip of her beer, slow and casual, like the conversation didn’t matter—but he could feel the temperature change.

“That kind of unit needs flexibility,” she said. “They’re not out there writing traffic tickets. They’re chasing domestic cells—armed, trained, and in some cases, military-grade. You don’t shut that down by following protocol.”

Flynn leaned back, resting his arm across the back of the couch. “Yeah, but at what point does ‘flexibility’ become carte blanche? Who decides when a line’s been crossed?”

Victoria stared back at the television. “Maybe that’s the price.”

“For what?”

“For safety,” she said.

Flynn watched her closely. She wasn’t defending ASP’s actions, not directly. But she wasn’t opposing them either. He didn’t know what unsettled him more—the way she spoke like someone who’d thought it through, or how easily she seemed to agree with it.

He took another pull from his beer and set the bottle on the table. “You think the American public would accept that?”

“They already have,” she said. “They just don’t know it.”

42

ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND

Mr. White stepped through the front door without knocking. He didn’t need to. Barrow had been expecting him.

The admiral sat in his usual chair, a short pour of bourbon in his hand, the fire in the hearth flickering low. He didn’t look up as White entered, merely tilted his glass slightly, a silent acknowledgment.

“I got a call,” White said. “Tipster inside the Post. Someone on the editorial staff.”

Barrow raised his chin toward White, inviting him to continue. Otherwise his expression was unreadable.

“They’re running a big piece on the Indiana raid,” White continued. “Morton’s name is on it.”

Barrow exhaled through his nose. His fingers tapped once against the glass. Then he took a sip.

“When?”

“Sunday. Front page.”

Barrow set the glass down carefully on the table beside him. “What does Morton have?”

White adjusted his well-tailored cuff, gave a small shrug. “Enough. A few photos and probably a few pissed-off cops who saw something they weren’t supposed to and don’t like being cut out of the loop. He’s likely going to reach out to Capitol Hill and the Pentagon for some comments.”

Barrow leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice was calm, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

“If this runs, it won’t just be bad optics,” he said. “This is bigger than some senator grandstanding. This puts ASP under a microscope. That means people asking the kind of questions that make things very inconvenient for us.”

Barrow went silent, but White didn’t interrupt. He knew there was more.

“The Pentagon will disavow,” Barrow continued. “The White House will offer ‘concern’ but stay hands-off, at least at first. The Senate will smell blood in the water and start demanding hearings. The media will sink their teeth in and won’t let go. And then comes the real problem.”

He picked up his drink, but didn’t sip it. Just held it.

“They’ll start looking past Indiana. They’ll dig into every operation, every name tied to it. And eventually, someone gets curious enough to start connecting dots that weren’t meant to be connected. I know Morton. He’s a solid war correspondent. If he was there in Indiana then he knows what he saw. He doesn’t know the whole thing, but he’s on the trail, and he won’t stop.”

White let a beat pass before saying, “Unless someone stops him.”

Barrow drew in a deep breath and then said, “Don’t let it get messy. No loose ends.”

White nodded. He didn’t need to be told how to do his job.

43

ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND

The Bancroft Hall Rifle Range was buried deep in the heart of the Academy, quiet and sterile, lit by harsh overheads that hummed like a headache.

Admiral Barrow stood alone in one of the lanes, sleeves rolled, earmuffs snug, firing a Colt 1911 like he’d done it every morning for the past thirty years. His stance was calm and relaxed. The kind of ease that only came from repetition and absolute control.

Three rounds punched through the paper target in a tight group, center mass. He took his time ejecting the magazine, sliding it onto the counter with a clean, deliberate motion.

Viper stepped in through the side door, said nothing. The door clicked shut behind him.

Barrow didn’t turn. “You’re a hard man to reach.”

He raised the pistol, sighted in, and squeezed off three rounds in slow succession.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The target, thirty yards downrange, absorbed three more tight shots.

Viper stood just inside the threshold. He wasn’t wearing ear protection. He didn’t flinch.

Barrow cleared the pistol, safety on, and set it on the table beside him. Only then did he turn.

“Glad you came,” he said.

Viper said nothing.

Barrow picked up a cloth, started wiping the frame. “You know I qualified as an expert shooter with this back in eighty-one. Most guys drift to nine mil now. I never saw the point. You hit with this, they stay down.”

Viper stepped forward, slowly. “Never seen anyone get up from my Nine, either, Sir.”

He kept walking past Barrow, past the 1911, and stopped at the next firing lane. Uninvited, he pulled his sidearm—the SIG Sauer 226—from under his jacket, cleared it, then loaded a fresh mag with smooth, practiced efficiency.

No request. No acknowledgment. Just two men on separate lines now.

Barrow watched him for a beat, then picked up another magazine, loaded it with slow, methodical clicks as he fed it seven .45 caliber ACP rounds.

Viper raised the SIG and fired twice—pop, pop. Both rounds hit high-center. Clean. No hesitation. He didn’t glance at the grouping. He just loaded another mag.

“You want to know what I think?” Barrow said, not waiting for an answer. “I think you did exactly what I trained you to do. You saw an unresolved threat and neutralized it.”

Viper slammed the mag into the grip. Click. But he said nothing.

“I also think you took something off the board that wasn’t yours to take,” Barrow growled.

Viper shrugged as he stared at the target, “I identified a terrorist operative as a threat. Now he’s gone.”

“You took out more than one terrorist. You wiped out an entire cell.”

Viper sent a burst of three into his target. Quick, tight, slightly off center. The last shot drifted low. He let the SIG hang for a moment before setting it down.

A smile flickered across his face—brief, uninvited, but real. The kid was proud of himself, and Barrow couldn’t blame him. A whole damn encampment of armed men, taken out solo. That kind of thing earned a grin.

Barrow watched him, then stepped back to the line. He raised the Colt again.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Another cluster in the center ring.

Viper watched the grouping. Perfect and tight, like a surgeon’s hand.

“Emotions pay the bills,” the admiral continued. “Americans get afraid, we come in and take away their fears. Now they love us and will do anything to not be afraid again.”

Barrow picked up the Colt without looking at Viper. He stepped back into his lane, raised it, and fired once—dead center. A perfect round through the bull. Too clean to be spontaneous.

Barrow turned, setting the pistol down again, careful with the placement. “You cost us a news cycle. Maybe two.”

Viper didn’t respond.

Barrow stepped closer, voice lower now. “I’m not angry. I understand. You lost men. I built ASP knowing that loss was part of the equation. I knew it when I picked you.”

For a second, the only sound was the slow tick of the ventilation fans pulling gun smoke from the air.

The young man nodded slowly then said, “I did what needed to be done.”

Barrow gave a small nod, as if that confirmed something. “I figured. And I appreciate the clarity.”

He picked up the 1911 again, checked the chamber, and fired a single round without warning.

The shot cracked across the room—clean, final. The target flinched. A fourth shot, just below the others. Same group.

Barrow looked downrange for a long moment, then turned and walked toward the far exit. He didn’t say goodbye.

Behind him, he heard the SIG—three sharp, steady shots.

Barrow knew the sound, knew the rhythm. He kept walking. Then the fourth shot came. Louder. Slower.

He stopped just before the door but didn’t turn around.

The spacing was wrong, the angle. Viper hadn’t shot his own target. He’d stayed in his lane and put three rounds straight into the head of Barrow’s.

It was deliberate and controlled, a perfect grouping.

Barrow huffed, shouldering open the door without another word.

The kid wasn’t his anymore.

44

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Mr. White didn’t rush. He had time. The black Audi sedan moved effortlessly through the city, cutting through traffic with quiet precision. He had left Annapolis without ceremony, making his way down Route 50 toward Washington as the lights of the Beltway flickered past. The drive had been uneventful—predictable even. He liked predictability.

He steered the car into the underground garage beneath an unassuming residential building in Georgetown. No grand entrance, no doorman—just security that was discreet but impenetrable. A keycard, a silent elevator ride, and then he stepped into the space that belonged to him and no one else. Barrow had offered the use of a car service, but White didn’t believe in having drivers, handlers, or unnecessary company around. He had no use for partnerships. In his line of work, loose ends were unacceptable.

The interior was precise. A minimalist’s dream if the minimalist had taste and an appreciation for fine things. Polished floors, sleek furnishings in rich dark woods and deep, muted colors. The lighting was warm but controlled, never garish, never stark. The artwork—real, of course, no replicas—was curated, shifting between European masters and modern abstraction depending on his mood.

The air smelled of aged wood, clean linen, and something subtler—bergamot, from the candle he had left burning earlier.

White removed his jacket, placing it on a hanger in the walk-in closet. His fingers trailed briefly along the sleeve, feeling the texture of the fabric. Custom-made. Like everything he wore. Perfection, tailored to him and him alone.

He moved to the bar flanked by a wall of crystal glasses and a collection of rare spirits, arranged like museum pieces. He poured a measure of Armagnac, letting the aroma settle before taking a slow sip of the French brandy.

He strolled toward the small but impeccably arranged kitchen. He wasn’t a man who cooked—he found it unnecessary—but he appreciated the artistry of fine food. From the refrigerator, he retrieved a small container, sourced from one of the few nearby establishments he trusted to meet his standards.

He plated the food with the presentation of a five-star restaurant. A slice of foie gras, seared just enough to hold its form. A single fig, halved. A drizzle of aged balsamic, dark and rich as ink. Nothing excessive. Just enough.

He carried his plate to the glass dining table, set precisely in the room’s center with a grand view of the Potomac. Each bite was measured, appreciated. He enjoyed fine things, but never in excess. Indulgence was weakness.

The Clearaudio turntable in the corner was already spinning. Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 drifted through the air, each note precise, measured, without excess. The interplay of the strings—meticulous, deliberate—filled the space without overwhelming it. A favorite piece of his, beautiful in its structure.

As Mr. White finished the last bite, he set his fork down—perfectly aligned to the edge of the plate—and wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.

Then, he went to work.

The laptop on the desk was encrypted beyond commercial capability. A direct line to his own secured network. He opened it with a fingerprint scan, then pulled up a file with the name “Ted Morton.”

The journalist had been easy to track. Morton was a relic of another era—a war correspondent who had survived many wars, many firefights, many close calls. He had been in Afghanistan before the withdrawal, Iraq before that, Somalia in the 90s. A man who had outlived his profession, and yet, he still hunted for truth like a starving dog.

Mr. White studied the information with mild interest. He already knew how this would end, but the process was important. He needed to understand the man he was about to erase.

Morton’s routine was predictable. He worked late and spent a lot of his time at a small bar near his apartment. He traveled the same route from home to work to the bar and back home again like clockwork. Morton had two ex-wives but no children. He was a creature of habit and a man who felt very safe in his own town.

That assumption would be his downfall.

White closed the laptop. He didn’t need to read further. He had what he needed. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, letting the Brandenburg Concerto carry through the space as he crafted the plan in his head. The beauty of a good operation was in its simplicity. No theatrics, no unnecessary flourishes—just precision.

Morton’s predictability meant there was no need for improvisation. The bar he frequented, a longstanding journalist haunt near Dupont Circle, provided the perfect setting. Too public for a sudden disappearance, too well-known for a crude accident. That wasn’t White’s style, anyway.

His story wouldn’t publish for another four days, but White needed to act quickly. His tipster at The Post said they would begin building the Sunday package early. It’s possible that a chunk of Morton’s article would already be in the system ready to print. But an old scribe like Morton would likely play it close to the vest and hold onto his work for as long as possible. He’d still be reaching out to sources and wouldn’t want the details of his story available to be leaked before it got printed. Morton would be careful, and that would work to Mr. White’s advantage.

He would let Morton enjoy his routine for one more night. Let him sip his whiskey, scrawl his notes in whatever battered laptop he carried, perhaps even let him make a few more phone calls and dig a little deeper, thinking he was still in control of the story.

As White finished his Armagnac, he moved toward his kitchen—not for a meal, but for a final touch of preparation. On the way, he lifted the Bach vinyl from the turntable, returned it to its jacket, and then to his cabinet. He flipped through his meticulously organized collection, selecting something more fitting for the task ahead—The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I. Precision. Structure. The foundation of logic itself.

The first Prelude and Fugue filled the space, the crisp notes of piano sharpening his focus. This was the music of exacting minds. The kind of minds that had, decades ago, pioneered the meticulous study of toxins, venoms, and neurological agents.

White had studied those men—Schneider, Klauber, Hecht—scientists whose works had long been buried in the aftermath of war, their knowledge deemed too dangerous for public access. But White had found their texts, deep in archives, hidden among forgotten medical books and suppressed research papers. Their biochemical studies had been methodical—beautiful, in their own way. It was through their writings that he had learned the true art of toxins: how to extract, refine, and deliver them with surgical precision.

The freezer hummed softly, its dedicated compartment kept at a precise -18°C, the ideal temperature for his creations. He put on latex gloves, opened the drawer, and selected a single ice cube. It was clear as glass, its geometric edges cut with a craftsman’s precision. Inside, suspended in the frozen water, lay Tetrodotoxin—harvested, purified, and measured down to the microgram.

Tetrodotoxin, known as TTX, was a neurotoxin unlike any other. Derived from the pufferfish, it was a substance that paralyzed without convulsions and silenced without struggle. The victim would feel an initial numbness, then a slowing of the heartbeat, a creeping paralysis that would leave them helpless but fully aware as their body shut down. It was a poison of restraint, of control—an execution conducted in silence.

White admired the ice cube for a moment, rotating it between his fingers. The toxin had no taste, no odor, no color. By the time the ice melted into Morton’s drink, the journalist’s fate would be sealed. The subtle symptoms would begin a few hours after ingestion—a slight tingling in the lips, then the fingers. By the time Morton reached his apartment, he would struggle to lift his phone. His lungs would tighten. His body would betray him.

Morton’s death would present as a sudden and tragic medical episode—a cardiac event, a stroke, or perhaps an undiagnosed neurological disorder finally catching up to him. No signs of struggle, no forced entry, no external trauma. The body would be found in his apartment, collapsed near his desk or in bed, his face slack, his fingers curled as if reaching for help that never came.

Standard toxicology screenings—opioids, barbiturates, common poisons—would turn up nothing. Even an autopsy would struggle to find a cause. Tetrodotoxin left no distinct chemical traces in the bloodstream after death, dispersing into the tissues so subtly that only the most specialized lab, one explicitly searching for rare marine neurotoxins, might detect it. And who would suspect that a veteran journalist in Washington had been assassinated with an exotic venom found in deep-sea pufferfish?

No one would ask the right questions. His death would be attributed to stress, a lifestyle that included too much smoking, too much drinking, and too little sleep, or just bad luck. And just like that, his story would die with him.

White placed the ice cube into a small, insulated case, built to maintain temperature within a fraction of a degree until it was needed. He snapped the case shut with a satisfying click.

Morton would drink. The cube would melt. And before the night was over, the journalist would be just another forgotten name, another misplaced file in the vast machinery of history.

White allowed himself another glass of Armagnac as he refined the final details of the operation. Removing Morton was one thing, but eliminating the story itself required a second layer of execution.

Morton was old-school, but not foolish. He would have backups. Notes. Audio recordings. A digital footprint that needed to be erased along with him. White had no intention of breaking into a dead man’s apartment in the middle of the night to rifle through papers. That was amateur work. Far too messy.

Instead, he would make sure there was nothing left to find.

A standard wipe wouldn’t be enough. Any competent journalist would have cloud backups, email drafts, hidden redundancies. And White had no interest in playing an endless game of digital cat and mouse.

No, this required something cleaner. A complete and total data wipe.

He reached for his phone, not to make a call—he never conducted business directly on open networks—but to initiate a coded request. The supplier was based in Berlin, a specialist in quiet, invisible erasures. A few lines of encrypted text, routed through three dead drops, and the order was set: a targeted EMP device, the size of a deck of cards. Short-range, directional, powerful enough to erase everything nearby.

Once Morton had consumed his drink—once the chemical compound had done its work—he would return home as usual. Mr. White would activate the EMP from outside the building, wiping Morton’s phone, his laptop, his external drives—everything within range. Any cloud-stored backups would be worthless without authentication keys, which would die with him.

No forced entry. No missing files. No smoking gun.

White placed his empty glass down, perfectly aligned with the edge of the table. The final notes of The Well-Tempered Clavier faded into silence, each measured progression resolving with absolute precision.

The plan was set.

45

NEAR WASHINGTON, D.C.

Senator Quentin Danbury had ridden in enough government vehicles to know when he wasn’t being told something. The SUV’s interior was quiet—too quiet. No low-volume radio from the front seat, no idle small talk, not even the typical voice on the GPS giving vague updates about route changes. Just the hum of the road beneath the tires and the cold whisper of the vents pushing recirculated air into the dim cabin.

The glass between the back seat and the driver was sealed and soundproof. No divider switch on Danbury’s side. No visible controls. He’d checked. And he’d checked twice.

The windows were tinted darker than he thought was legal, turning everything outside into shadows streaked by flashes of orange freeway light. Buildings passed—maybe industrial, maybe military—but all he could see were vague silhouettes and motion blur. They could’ve been anywhere. And he didn’t like that. He especially didn’t like that he wasn’t alone.

Opposite him sat Admiral Paul Barrow, legs crossed like he was reading a briefing on an afternoon flight. His coat was pressed and buttoned, dress shoes shined, hands resting on a thin black leather folder that he hadn’t opened once since they’d left Danbury’s townhouse.

It sat there on his lap like a statement: I have the answers. You don’t need them yet.

And next to Barrow, the other passenger: Mr. White.

Danbury avoided looking at him, but it didn’t help. The man’s presence filled the cabin like nerve gas—odorless, tasteless, deadly all the same. White hadn’t moved since the ride began. Hands folded on his lap, chin tilted slightly down, like he was waiting for a cue only he could hear.

Danbury didn’t know White’s rank, didn’t know if he even had one. But he knew the man’s job. He was the guy they sent when something needed to disappear and no one could afford to sign the paperwork.

Danbury tried to ignore the cold knot in his gut.

He shifted slightly in his seat and cleared his throat. “Is this going to be one of those rides where you don’t tell me where I’m going?”

Barrow didn’t turn. “You’re already here.”

Danbury raised an eyebrow. “Always so dramatic, Paul.”

Still no reaction. Barrow just stared out the window, calm and unreadable.

Danbury glanced at White again, then quickly away. “Not even going to pretend this isn’t weird?”

Barrow finally looked over, just briefly. “We needed privacy.”

The SUV turned. Headlights swept across a stretch of chain-link fence and low structures—warehouses maybe, or bunkers. Hard to tell through the tint. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel like a place senators were usually taken for friendly conversations.

Danbury leaned closer to the glass, trying to orient himself. But the windows might as well have been blacked out with paint. No road signs. No skyline. No way to tell which direction they’d come from or where they were heading.

All he knew was that they’d left Washington behind a half hour ago, and the road hadn’t made a single curve sharp enough to suggest they’d stayed local.

“You know I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark,” Danbury said, eyes back on Barrow.

Barrow didn’t reply. The folder stayed closed. The windows stayed dark. And Mr. White didn’t blink.

Danbury sat back in his seat and adjusted his tie out of habit. His stomach turned—not from the ride, but from the sense that whatever this was, he wasn’t in the driver’s seat anymore.

Barrow finally spoke. “Viper’s out.”

Danbury turned toward him. “Out how?”

Barrow kept his voice even. “He acted without orders. Took out the entire cell in Texas. Burned our operation there. No press, no footage, no asset trails to follow.”

Danbury blinked. “My God. That’s not just ‘out’—that’s rogue.”

“He’s not rogue,” Barrow said. “He’s finished.”

Danbury leaned forward, searching the admiral’s face in the low flicker of streetlights. “You cut him loose?”

Barrow didn’t answer right away. The SUV slipped under a bank of sodium lights, shadows rippling across his features. Then they were back in the dark.

“He made his choice,” Barrow said.

Danbury felt the words hit harder than he wanted them to. “Viper’s in the wind,” he muttered. “He’s a damn Rambo out there. That’s an enemy I don’t want.”

He paused. “And if he talks to the press⁠—”

“He won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Danbury blinked. He was still reeling from The Washington Post article that ran that morning.

Ted Morton—found dead on the Metro tracks. Officially ruled a suicide, but inside the newsroom, no one believed it.

The article kept things clinical—tragic loss of an accomplished reporter with unfinished work. But one paragraph stood out:

“Sources confirm Morton had been investigating an elite military unit operating without clear oversight, potentially linked to unauthorized domestic missions. No story was published prior to his death.”

No names. No acronyms. But everyone knew what it meant: ASP.

Danbury had hoped the story would die with Morton. But now it was out there, smoldering in public view—and Viper’s meltdown wasn’t helping.

Danbury shifted uncomfortably. The SUV’s leather seat groaned beneath him. He glanced across at White, who hadn’t moved—hands folded, eyes glassy and inert, like he was waiting to be wound up and pointed at a problem.

Barrow kept going. “Viper’s angry, but he’s trained. He’ll do what men like him always do—go to ground, try to find a new enemy to fight, maybe even think he’s doing the world a favor.”

Barrow spoke with finality, but Danbury saw the tension behind it. The press leak had rattled more than just public affairs. Ted Morton had been reckless, yes—but clever. Too clever to disappear quietly. Someone had turned the volume down on him, but not fast enough.

And now Barrow was speeding things up. Danbury knew that tone, that posture. It meant the clock had changed.

Danbury didn’t respond right away. His mind was already racing.

ASP wasn’t just another unit—it was a machine built on image, precision, consistency. Viper had been the tip of the spear and the face of the program. Not to the public, maybe, but inside the building? Among the right people? He was a name that moved funding and silenced skeptics.

“You don’t just replace a soldier like Viper,” Danbury said finally, “at least not without explaining why he’s gone. And with his whole squad wiped⁠—”

“Relax, Quentin,” Barrow interrupted, voice low but firm. “I grow guys like Viper on trees.”

Danbury let out a soft, humorless laugh.

Barrow’s tone had shifted. The words landed like a line he’d said too many times before—habit, not conviction. Danbury caught it. And he wasn’t sure what chilled him more: the idea that Barrow believed his own propaganda or the possibility that he didn’t.

The SUV slowed, the subtle shift in momentum jarring Danbury out of his own thoughts. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been gripping the armrest.

The hum of the tires changed, asphalt gave way to something smoother—wide concrete, flat, and open—the kind of surface you didn’t find on highways or private roads, the kind you only found on runways.

They’d arrived. But where?

Outside the darkened windows, shapes emerged under the pale glare of floodlights. Chain-link fences topped with razor wire. A small control tower. A squat gray hangar squatting like a bunker near the edge of the field.

And in the center of it all, a sleek private jet, idling like it had been waiting for Barrow and no one else. The nose was pointed into the wind, wings steady under the glow of tarmac lights. The engines were running low and even, like they didn’t expect to sit idle for long.

Danbury tried to peer out the side, to catch a glimpse of a sign or a landmark. Nothing. Not even a logo on the hangar. The shadows swallowed everything but the plane.

He didn’t know what city they were in. He didn’t even know what state.

Before the SUV had fully stopped, Barrow opened his door and stepped out. A burst of cold air surged into the cabin, bringing with it the dry scent of jet fuel and windblown concrete.

Danbury hesitated then followed. He stepped onto the tarmac and glanced up. Barrow stood at the base of the jet’s stairs, coat catching the wind, perfectly at ease.

Danbury wasn’t.

Something about the plane, the timing, the fact that they were nowhere near a known military base or airfield. It all made his chest tighten just enough to notice. He hadn’t been briefed. He hadn’t been offered options. And now he was standing in the dark with no sense of where he was—or where Barrow was going.

Barrow reached the stairs, pausing only long enough to glance back toward the hangar.

“It’s time to accelerate,” he said over his shoulder, voice raised only enough to be heard. “We need to put operative Nike to work.”

Danbury stopped walking. The words hit like ice.

“You serious?”

Barrow didn’t turn. “It’s the final step.”

“And if this doesn’t go quiet?” Danbury said. “If Viper resurfaces? If the press⁠—”

Barrow turned halfway up the stairs and cut him off with a look. Not a glare. Not anger. Just finality.

“I’ll talk to you later, Senator.”

Danbury frowned, watching Barrow ascend the steps.

“Wait,” Danbury called after him. “You’re not riding back?”

Barrow didn’t answer. Just gave a small, dismissive nod toward the SUV.

“Mr. White will escort you home.”

The door behind Danbury creaked open. He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He could feel the presence at his back. It was cold, patient, eager.

Barrow disappeared into the jet. A moment later, the cabin door sealed shut with a hiss, and the jet’s lights blinked in sequence.

Danbury stood there a beat longer, wind slicing through the wool of his coat, ears ringing from the low whine of the engines. He looked back at the SUV. White was already seated inside, waiting.

Danbury stood his ground a moment longer—part stubborn pride, part calculated delay. But there was nowhere else to go. No map. No other ride. Finally, without a word, he got in.

46

OVER THE AMERICAN MIDWEST

Admiral Barrow stood in silence as the encrypted line connected. Outside the window, the night sky stretched endless and black, broken only by the occasional flicker of stars and the soft blinking of the jet’s wingtip lights. Inside the cabin, the only illumination came from a narrow overhead reading light and the pale glow of the secure tablet on the table in front of him.

A soft chime and he was connected. The admiral embraced the silence before he spoke, his smile slight but genuine. “You still answer faster than anyone else I’ve ever trained.”

A voice on the line—faint, indecipherable. Callsign: Nike.

Barrow let out a low chuckle. “You were never the loudest, never the one pounding the table—but you listened, watched, and waited. I saw it early. You knew how to operate above the noise.”

He paused. Hearing Nike’s voice again took him back, made him remember simpler times when his job was easier to define, when the mission was clear and obvious. The smile held steady as he listened. The pride he felt for his protege wouldn’t allow it to fade.

Barrow continued, “I told them all: ‘This one doesn’t need a spotlight. Just a mission.’”

A pause as he listened.

“I wasn’t wrong, was I?” Barrow asked.

He paced around the room, one hand in his pocket. His voice stayed light, but he felt his posture stiffen from the tension he felt inside.

“I read your latest eval,” he said. “I don’t know if I’m more impressed by the scores or by the way you’ve managed to keep the machine at bay. That’s no small trick these days.”

Nike responded, and the admiral beamed like a proud father.

“I’ve seen what you do when the pressure’s on,” Barrow said. “You never show the weight, but you’ve always carried it better than anyone, even when someone sticks you with bad field position and tells you to win the game anyway.”

Barrow stopped walking. His tone shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.

“That’s what this is, Kid,” he said. “It’s fourth-and-ten with two minutes to go. We need a touchdown. Anything less, and everything we’ve worked toward goes down. You hear me?”

He steadied himself. The warmth in his voice cooled a few degrees.

“We don’t get another shot at this,” he said. “Too many eyes. Too many cracks in the dam we thought we’d sealed. If we wait, we risk losing it all.”

The response was in the affirmative. Nike understood. Barrow expected nothing less.

“This was always your ball to carry,” he said. “The only difference is that the clock has sped up.”

Silence this time, and Barrow let it linger.

Then: “Once you secure the package, we’ll meet on the mountain. Failure is not an option.”

Without hesitation this time, Nike accepted the mission with a firm tone that told Barrow the stakes were understood. He never had a doubt.

“History doesn’t wait for the timid,” the admiral said. “It remembers the ones who acted. And it forgets the ones who hesitated. Godspeed.”

He reached for the tablet, tapped the screen once, severing the call. The room returned to silence. Barrow stood still for a long moment.

His masterplan was in motion.

47

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Mr. White sat at the bar, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass of bourbon he had no intention of drinking. The place disgusted him.

The stench of cheap beer, burnt fryer oil, and unwashed laundry clung to the air like an unwanted guest. The dim lighting cast everything in a yellow haze, and the patrons—loud, ignorant, and barely self-aware—argued over the most recent professional football contest.

White allowed himself a small, internal sigh. Such a silly concern. Men weeping over statistics, literally fighting over professional athletes, overpaid millionaires who would never know their names. It would be laughable were it not so pathetic and irritating.

He had more important things to tend to.

His clothing, far more pedestrian than he would normally wear, itched at his patience. The jeans were stiff, the flannel shirt draped across his shoulders like a poorly tailored costume. Blending in with the unwashed masses was a price he paid for efficiency.

Ted Morton arrived right on schedule.

White caught the brief reflection of the journalist in the mirror behind the bar. Morton walked with the carefree manner of a man who had no idea he was being hunted.

White suppressed a smirk. The best kind of prey.

Morton took his usual seat, nodding to the bartender, who slid him a whiskey—neat, two cubes.

White waited.

He took his time, eyeing the room without looking like he was watching. The two men beside him had been bickering since he arrived, voices rising and falling as their alcohol consumption increased.

It was background noise. Until it wasn’t.

White reached into his pocket to retrieve a single, carefully prepared ice cube.

The poison, when ingested, would take time to work—undetectable until it was too late. A method White preferred. Clean. Efficient. Untraceable. White would be long gone, and Morton would die of what would be identified as natural causes in his own apartment.

Morton turned slightly, distracted by a game on the overhead screen.

Now.

White moved with precision past Morton, sliding the ice cube from his fingers into the man’s glass. A perfect drop. No splash, no wasted movement.

And then⁠—

A fist collided with a jaw behind him.

The two football fans—who, just moments ago, had been nothing more than drunk idiots, suddenly exploded into violence.

Chairs scraped, tables rattled, bodies collided.

One of the men stumbled into Morton’s table.

The glass tipped, wobbled, then crashed to the floor.

White stared in disbelief as his poisoned ice cube slid across the grimy floor and resting under another table before it was kicked elsewhere, never to be recovered. His perfect plan had just fallen apart. White had planned for contingencies. But not for a drunken brawl over a damn football team.

Shouts turned to punches, men were shoved against tables, glass shattered. The bartender cursed, grabbing a bat from behind the counter.

White clenched his jaw as Morton, clearly uninterested in the commotion, rose from his seat, throwing a few bills on the bar before heading for the door.

White remained still, carefully assessing.

No good options.

He could pursue Morton immediately, but not without drawing attention. He had no weapon on him—the plan didn’t require violence.

Until now.

White remained seated, jaw tight, his fingers still wrapped around the sweating bourbon glass. He forced himself to appear unfazed. A man like him—trained, meticulous, always in control—did not react. Morton was leaving, walking right out the door into the night, and White had seconds to decide what to do about it.

He had no firearm. No blade. The poison had been his method of choice, and it was currently seeping into the filth beneath someone’s boot.

This was supposed to be clean.

Now, it would be messy.

White stood, adjusted his flannel, and left a few crumpled bills on the counter—just another working man settling his tab.

He weaved through the drunken chaos of the bar fight, slipping past two men grappling over a spilled beer, dodging a flying elbow. The bartender was shouting now, but no one was listening. Perfect.

By the time White stepped outside, Morton was already across the street, heading south on foot, hands jammed into his coat pockets. He was muttering, still irritated, maybe replaying the fight at the bar.

White followed at a steady, unhurried pace, keeping to the opposite side of the street for two blocks. His foot kicked something hard, a piece of rebar from a building that was under construction. He reached down and picked up the metal rod. It was heavy, about a foot long.

White praised his luck. Given the proper opportunity, this piece of carbon steel would serve him well. He concealed the would-be weapon up his sleeve and cupped his fingers to hold it in place

Morton picked up his pace. White realized he wasn’t just walking—he was reacting. Morton knew he was being followed.

Good. Let him sweat.

Morton was a seasoned journalist, a former war correspondent—he wasn’t the type to panic easily. But he also wasn’t stupid. He started toward home, then abruptly cut left, crossing the street mid-block.

White didn’t change his pace. Didn’t hesitate. He kept walking, passing by Morton’s new path, letting him think he’d lost his tail. It worked—for a moment.

Morton slowed and glanced over his shoulder. Then, at the last second, he doubled back toward Metro Center. He was no longer just reacting. He was testing.

Smart. But too late.

White followed, keeping just far enough back to avoid the glow of the streetlights. He stayed in the shadows of the Metro entrance, watching Morton descend into the station. He let him go first. Let him believe he was safely inside. But once the escalators swallowed Morton into the underground, White stepped forward and followed.

The Metro Center platform stretched out in a long, dimly lit curve, its arched ceiling swallowing sound.

Few people remained at this hour. A woman in a coat scrolled through her phone, standing near the stairs. A man leaned against a pillar, rubbing his eyes, exhausted. A Metro cop lingered near the other end, checking his watch.

Morton stood at the edge of the platform, watching the tunnel.

White stayed back, waiting. Watching.

A Red Line train was arriving in two minutes. He scanned the ground for something—anything—he could use. Something improvised, disposable, meaningful. His eyes landed on a crumpled Washington Post newspaper, half-shoved under a bench.

Perfect.

He knelt, pretending to tie his shoe, and slipped the rebar into the rolled-up paper. No one would look twice at a man holding a copy of the Post. Morton had spent his career working for the newspaper. Mr. White could barely keep from chuckling at the irony.

The station announcement echoed overhead. “Red Line train to Shady Grove, arriving in one minute. Red Line, Shady Grove.”

White stepped forward, walking toward Morton, closing the distance. The woman with the phone glanced at the board, then turned toward the stairs. The man at the pillar pushed off and walked toward the exit. The Metro cop took a few slow steps in the opposite direction.

Now it was just them.

Morton tensed. He knew. He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch White in his periphery. Their eyes met.

White didn’t look away.

Morton’s breath hitched. He wasn’t a man easily shaken, but this was different. This wasn’t a war zone, a battlefield, or some other dangerous assignment. This was home.

And he knew he was going to die.

White let him sit with it for a second. Then he moved.

Ted Morton’s eyes went wide. Mr. White expected him to run or defend himself in some way. But Morton froze. White had killed enough to know that you never could predict how someone might react when they saw it coming.

A sharp, compact strike to the left side of the head. The massive weight of the loaded newspaper crushed Morton’s skull, sending a shock through his nervous system. His knees buckled. He lurched forward, hands flailing for balance⁠—

White shoved him backwards.

Morton toppled backward onto the tracks. White dropped the newspaper and its deadly contents on top of him. He stepped back and took a seat near the wall. He could hear the train coming.

Then the horn blared.

The train hit him at full speed.

Mr. White then walked to the escalator and ascended into the Washington night.

48

Legend said the Greek goddess Nike had wings on her heels and victory in her blood. She didn’t lead armies—she crowned the ones who won. She moved between gods and men, untouched by defeat, offering glory to those worthy of it. In the old statues, she always leaned forward, wind in her hair, her face calm. Not fierce, not emotional, but certain.

Nike never hesitated.

It was the kind of mythology that stuck with a young pilot looking to make her mark in a sky full of men with louder names and heavier reputations. But Victoria Sloane hadn’t chosen it. The name had been given to her.

“You fly like you’re chasing something,” Rear Admiral Barrow had said after her second solo combat simulation many years ago. “Something fast, something already winning.”

He handed her the callsign with a faint smile. It wasn’t a nickname; it was a statement.

“Nike,” he said. “Let the rest of them wonder if they’re already losing.”

Everyone in the Navy called her Nike. Once a callsign landed, it stuck. Her squadron used it. Her instructors used it. Barrow used it most of all.

When Victoria moved to NASA, the callsign faded into the background. Astronauts didn’t use nicknames. The public preferred clean-cut professionals, not fighter pilots with call signs and war stories. That was fine. She didn’t need everyone to use it.

But Barrow still did. Even now, when they spoke, he called her Nike. It was a quiet nod to where she came from—and a reminder of who had helped her get where she was. A name from the old days, and an ever-present reminder of their connection.

Barrow had pulled strings, cleared paths, pushed her forward when others slowed her down. He’d believed in her back then and still did now. And she believed in the mission.

She didn’t ask for Barrow’s attention. She earned it from Day 1. From the way she carried herself, her manner and attitude in what was still very much a man’s world.

It wasn’t just how she flew—though that mattered. She had instincts the best instructors couldn’t teach, the kind of feel for the sky that separated survivors from statistics. Barrow saw it early and told her she had the thing most pilots pretended they did.

But it wasn’t just that.

She listened and learned fast. She didn’t talk just to hear the sound of her own voice. That stood out more than she realized at the time. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone—she just wanted to be taken seriously. And Barrow had taken notice.

He never said much about it, especially since he didn’t hand out compliments. But she could tell by the way he gave her extra time in the sim and called on her in briefing rooms. He expected more from her than the others, and she took that seriously.

When things got rough, he didn’t hang back. He backed her up. Not because she asked but because he believed she was worth it.

Then came 2007, Kandahar Province.

Victoria was two hours into a long-range support run when the call came in—troops in contact, medevac in progress, requesting immediate Close Air Support. It was the kind of call that snapped everything into focus.

She was flying lead with a pair of F/A-18F Super Hornets that launched off the USS Lincoln and refueled twice over Pakistan. Her bird was armed with JDAMs and a full load of 20mm rounds. The Marines on the ground were boxed in west of Ghazni. Two Black Hawk helicopters were already in the air, heading toward the pickup point. The Taliban had dug in and was waiting.

Victoria had gas, ordnance, and altitude. She took the call without hesitation.

The Joint Terminal Attack Controller—or JTAC—on the ground was calm but urgent. He gave her grid references and marked IR strobes on the ridge west of the LZ. She picked up movement immediately—enemy fighters prepping a PKM nest along the exfil route.

A pair of A-10 Warthogs were already in the area, orbiting low, prepping gun runs. The JTAC confirmed Victoria was cleared to engage.

“Hornet Two-One, you’re good for release. Ridge is hot.”

Victoria locked onto the heat signature. Her WSO, callsign Gator, behind her in the cockpit, verified the target and range. Victoria armed a GBU-38 JDAM, checked wind, adjusted her vector, and released the bomb.

Seconds later, it hit with a deep thud and a secondary detonation—ammo cooking off in the enemy position. Dust and flame shot up from the slope. Then she looped high and scanned the eastern approach.

That’s when everything went haywire.

One of the A-10s—Hawg Two—broke formation. He dipped into a turn toward a target that hadn’t yet been confirmed. Through her HUD, Victoria saw the mistake unfolding in real time.

“Hornet Two-One to Hawg Two, check fire. East slope not cleared. Waiting for positive I.D.”

But it was too late.

A flash—a heat plume and a streak of white smoke—rose from the valley floor. The unmistakable fallout from a surface-to-air missile.

Hawg Two deployed flares and rolled hard, but the missile struck his right wing. A fireball bloomed as the engine tore free.

Hawg One’s pilot called out, “Hawg Two’s hit!”

Victoria saw it coming.

“Chute confirmed,” said Hawg One. “Pilot is out, drifting west.”

Smoke trailed behind the dying Warthog as it dropped out of the sky and slammed into the slope. The pilot drifted under canopy, heading toward the tree line. The medevac was still inbound.

Victoria cursed under breath. Air Force.

But then her wingman made it worse.

Callsign Shortstop, Hornet Two-two, banked suddenly and dropped altitude—directly into the Black Hawk helicopters’ flight lane.

“Shortstop, pull up. You’re in the corridor.” Victoria said.

No answer. Shortstop cut his Super Hornet across the valley, obscuring JTAC’s visual on the LZ and nearly forcing the helicopters to reposition mid-run.

“Hornet Two-Two, clear the damn airspace!”

No Reply.

Victoria yanked her stick and dropped in to cover the now-exposed convoy. Gator picked up new movement—east slope again, just south of the ejected pilot’s chute.

“New heat signatures—looks like another squad gearing up,” Gator said. “Same position Hawg Two was lining up on.”

“Hornet Two-One, we’ve got five IR targets southeast of the chute. They’re mobile. Could be prepping another launch,” the JTAC called.

There was no one else to take the shot.

Victoria answered, “Copy. I’ll handle it.”

She adjusted altitude and came in hard. Low and fast. Gator dialed the laser code and painted the group. The enemy was spread out, using trees for cover, likely thinking the downed pilot was an easy kill.

Victoria armed her second JDAM.

“Two-One, cleared hot,” came the order.

She released. The bomb dropped into the trees and hit center mass.

Fireball. The ridge was dead.

Victoria pulled up, banked right, and scanned for movement. There was none.

“Good hit. Ridge is cold. LZ is clear,” said Hawg One from his A-10.

The Black Hawk helicopters moved in, one loaded with wounded, the other ready to extract the downed Warthog pilot. No one else took fire. The medevac exfiltrated clean.

Victoria climbed back into overwatch as the JTAC signed off. The job was done.

She was last in line to land at Kandahar. She climbed down from her Hornet, nodded to the ground crew, and went straight to debrief. She said what needed to be said and nothing more.

The next morning, she got blindsided.

Shortstop filed a formal complaint: “Nike disrupted the Close Air Support stack.” He said her maneuver created confusion and that his own repositioning was “an emergency correction after Nike broke formation.” No mention of the fact that he himself had nearly clipped a medevac. No mention of the fact that Victoria had taken out both ambush points after everything went sideways.

Her CO called her in, explaining that it didn’t look good for her. He said the Air Force was already reviewing the A-10 loss. One jet down. One pilot almost lost. Brass wanted a butt to chew.

The quiet suggestion from her CO: Take the hit. Keep flying. Don’t make waves. It will pass.

Victoria sat in that office and said nothing. Inside, she was a fiery storm of rage. Outside, she maintained composure. She knew what had happened. And she knew she’d kept that convoy alive after her wingman broke formation.

She left the meeting, closed the door, and waited for the decision to come down hard on her. She didn’t wait long.

Three days later, the complaint was gone. Disappeared. Shortstop got reassigned—non-combat flight status, instructor track.

No one told her how it happened, but she had a strong suspicion.

Barrow didn’t need to call. He didn’t need to explain. He had pulled the logs, the audio, the gun camera footage. He’d put it in front of the right people and made it clear who saved the mission. Victoria walked away from the incident unscathed, but the whole affair left a bad taste in her mouth for Navy politics. She told Barrow so.

Six months later, NASA reached out with quiet interest for a test pilot program with astronaut potential.

She reached out to Barrow. He answered on the first ring as if he was expecting her call.

“Go do it, Nike,” he said. “You’ve already done the hard part.”

She put in the paperwork the next day.

NASA felt like a different planet. Her days were burdened by protocols, press handlers, and civilian oversight. But she kept her edge. She passed every phase without drama.

No one there called her Nike, and that was fine by her. She didn’t miss it.

But Barrow still used it. When they spoke, it was always, “How’s life on Earth, Nike?” or, “Still chasing victory?”

She never asked him to stop. He believed in her. And she believed in Barrow’s mission. Whatever it was, whatever shape it took, she knew one thing: Barrow didn’t waste time on people who couldn’t finish the job.

Now, years removed from combat missions, Victoria sat in the quiet of her townhouse, lights off except for the soft glow of her tablet. She wasn’t due back at Johnson for another three days, but Barrow had called.

And when Barrow called, she followed orders.

49

HOUSTON, TEXAS

The church sat at the edge of a dead-end street, tucked between a shuttered corner store and a row of sagging duplexes. It wasn’t abandoned, just ignored. A warped sign out front advertised last week’s service. Flynn didn’t bother with the main doors. He slipped in through the side entrance, past a rusted utility box and a concrete slab that looked like it had once served as a bench.

Inside, the only light came from a few wall sconces that buzzed faintly in the silence. The pews were old and uneven, their padding long since collapsed. At the front, a wooden cross leaned slightly left, mounted above a pulpit that looked like it hadn’t seen use in weeks. A forgotten water bottle sat on the second row. Someone had been here recently, but not long enough to matter.

Flynn took a seat in the second-to-last pew and settled in, eyes tracking the exits. The place had the feel of something once important, now barely maintained out of guilt. He tapped his fingers against the back of the pew in front of him, slow and steady. There were no stained-glass windows, just plain panels and old wood. A place built for faith, not comfort.

The last time he’d been in a place like this, he’d been twelve. His grandfather had dragged him to a veterans’ memorial service in a crumbling Baptist chapel in Shawnee. The sermon was short, but the silence afterward had stretched forever. His grandfather hadn’t spoken on the drive home, just stared straight ahead with that old, fixed expression—the one that said whatever had happened in the past didn’t deserve to be talked about.

Flynn remembered thinking how strange it was. All those grown men sitting there, dressed in pressed coats and polished shoes, like they were waiting for orders from a ghost.

The church now felt the same. Waiting for something, someone—but not God.

The door behind him creaked once. Alexei Volkov stepped in like he already knew the layout. He moved quietly, no wasted motion. Flynn didn’t turn around.

Volkov slid into the pew in front of him, two seats down. Two spies who once would’ve killed each other without hesitation—now sitting under a crooked cross, trading secrets like altar boys passing notes.

“You know Star Shield now,” the Russian said.

Flynn was loose, casual. “I’ve heard it mentioned.”

Volkov nodded. “Many years ago. That one came with a file.”

Flynn recalled his conversation with Dave Rankin, his friend’s voice smug over the phone: Star Shield … Think SDI’s dumber cousin … orbital targeting, terrain tracking, all the toys … Apparently it had the KGB all worked up. Flynn had written it off at the time—Dave just trying to ruffle his feathers with some Cold War nonsense.

But now Volkov, a former KGB officer, was sitting here, not laughing.

Volkov continued. “Star Shield was a strategic targeting project. Early prototype for orbital weapons systems. The Americans called it defensive. We didn’t agree. Its real purpose was first-strike capability. Pinpoint delivery from space under the guise of deterrence. We watched it closely. And then it failed. Poor targeting software was its initial downfall, aided by political pressure and the fall of the Berlin Wall. That all led to Star Shield being shelved.”

Flynn tilted his head, showing interest without enthusiasm. “Why are we talking about a dead program?”

“Because some people believe it isn’t dead. Or at least, they don’t think it should be.”

Flynn remembered Rankin’s voice again: Rumor is some retired brass has been pushing to resurrect it.

“Who?” Flynn asked.

“There’s no hard proof,” Volkov said. “No orders or funding trail, but one name keeps coming up.”

“Barrow,” Flynn said.

“I won’t be in your country much longer,” Volkov said. “At least not in Texas. These false identities, they don’t last. Eventually, someone looks too closely, or a dangerous person I’ve forgotten recognizes me in a hallway. When that happens, I vanish. Or I get vanished. That’s why I’m telling you this now, while I still can.”

Flynn sensed honesty in the man’s face and tone.

“Are you warning me?” Flynn asked.

“I’m pleading with you,” Volkov said. “To hope someone on this side does the right thing. If Star Shield ends up in the hands of men like Barrow, the world becomes a very dangerous place—very fast.”

Flynn knew what he was asking. “I don’t do that anymore. I’m no longer that man.”

Volkov stood. He did not look convinced. “You wanted a name. Now you have one.”

He clapped Flynn on the shoulder and walked toward the door.

Flynn looked around the chapel again. No one was coming. No one was listening. He was alone with worn wood and silence bearing witness. He stayed seated, staring at the floor as his mind processed it all: Dave Rankin’s joke, old documents, Volkov’s plea.

Admiral Barrow.

50

JOHNSON SPACE CENTER, HOUSTON

Victoria Sloane moved with purpose, clipboard in hand, ID badge clipped high, jacket zipped tight as she moved through Johnson Space Center. The facility slept, but never completely, which meant she still had to remain on guard. She looked like she belonged because she always looked like she belonged.

Building 31. Access Control Level Three. Her badge wouldn’t open the final door.

She found the security officer seated behind glass. Young, maybe early thirties, feet flat, arms crossed, civilian. He watched her approach with the dull attention of someone trained to be skeptical.

“I need to get through that door,” she said, calm, clear.

“Badge, please.”

She handed it over and let him scan it. Then she watched his brow wrinkle.

“It’s denying access,” he said. “Your clearance isn’t high enough for this wing.”

“I’m aware,” she said.

He looked up. “Then you know I can’t let you in.”

Victoria kept her face neutral. “My clearance is being updated. Call it in if you want. But if I don’t get through that door now, important people are going to want answers, and not from me.”

The guard hesitated. She could see it—uncertainty, caution, fear of stepping on the wrong boot.

“Commander, I⁠—”

“You know how this works,” she said, softer now. “If I’m wrong, someone up the chain chews me out. If you’re wrong, someone asks why a systems specialist was blocking a priority request.”

The door buzzed and Victoria passed through without a word.

She strode down the corridor past two locked offices. Her destination was the third on the right. Lab 310-C. She keyed in a six-digit override and stepped inside.

It looked like nothing: a plain workroom, two terminals, a disconnected server bay against the wall. No active stations. Nothing about the room said high value.

Victoria sat down, powered up the terminal, and keyed in the access codes she’d memorized three weeks ago.

A flash of green, signaling the system had accepted her.

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, silver drive—custom-fitted, insulated, designed for speed and silence. She inserted the drive. A modified decryption cypher, coded by someone she’d never met, vetted by Barrow himself. It bypassed standard NASA firewall protocols in seconds.

No one outside this room would recognize what the files represented, at least not without the keys or the framework. But Barrow had those already. He just needed the pieces. Victoria was collecting them.

The drive’s internal cypher started sifting. She watched the data stream begin to crawl across the screen. Models. Simulations. Predictive metrics.

Seven minutes.

Too long. The kid at the security door definitely called someone. Response time would be five minutes, tops. Not enough time to secure all the files. She’d need to focus on only the key ones.

She glanced at the hallway, which was still quiet—and unnervingly so. After muting the terminal, she leaned back slightly, arms folded. Nothing to do but wait.

Her mind drifted, uninvited, to the last time she’d spoken with Barrow. Not the terse message from earlier in the week, but the longer call two months back—the one where everything shifted.

His tone was quiet but final. No theatrics. No explanation. Just the voice of a man who’d already made up his mind.

“You’ve been in place long enough,” he’d said. “It’s time to move forward.”

She hadn’t asked what that meant.

“You don’t need to understand everything,” he’d said. “You only need to do your part. You know what’s at stake. That’s all that matters.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Washington’s full of cowards,” he’d said. “They buried things they didn’t understand. That doesn’t mean they aren’t useful.”

With Barrow, there were no reassurances. Just instructions.

She had said only one thing before the line went quiet: “I’ll handle it.”

Now, the drive ticked forward.

Four minutes, twenty seconds.

The door down the hall opened, the voices of two men flooding the corridor. The same guard, and someone older with a supervisory tone. Victoria didn’t panic—she simply closed the process windows and killed the screen’s glow.

She turned slightly, facing the corner like she was checking something in the wall wiring. A performance, just in case.

The voices drifted past. Then she waited thirty seconds before turning back to the machine.

Two minutes, forty-six seconds.

She counted her breaths. Kept her pulse down. One hand rested on the edge of the desk, steady. Her eyes stayed locked on the screen, but her mind stayed one step ahead—what she’d say if questioned, how she’d move if stopped.

She reached under the desk and tapped the emergency bypass key. It forced the final files into the queue, skipping nonessentials.

One minute, twenty-two seconds.

There wouldn’t be time for everything. But she’d get enough. Barrow hadn’t told her how it would be used. He didn’t need to. She trusted him. He was the only one who saw the threat clearly, the only one willing to act on it.

She heard the click of a radio mic somewhere in the corridor. Someone was checking her credentials again.

Thirty-four seconds.

Thirty-two seconds.

More footsteps, closer this time. She heard a voice: “She went in here?”

“Room 310,” someone answered.

She ejected the drive before the transfer hit 100%. Not clean, not full, but enough. Enough for what Barrow needed.

She shut down the terminal with three keystrokes. The screen went black.

She stood. Moved quickly, quietly. She opened the side access door—one that fed to an emergency stairwell.

She heard voices outside the main entrance now, spurring her down the stairs as stealthily as possible.

At the bottom, she reached the exit. There was no alarm. She sighed in relief as the door clicked behind her. Then she stepped into the night and walked to her car without looking back.

They would know what she had done, but that didn’t matter. She had a mission to perform, and there was no going back.

She was going to deliver Star Shield to Admiral Barrow.

51

HOUSTON, TEXAS

Victoria sat parked half a block from her townhouse, hands still on the wheel even though the engine had been off for five minutes. The street was dark except for a porch light flickering across the road. Crickets buzzed in the hedges. Somewhere, two dogs barked back and forth like they had unfinished business.

She could see the top corner of her living room window. The light was on. Flynn was home.

She didn’t want to go inside yet, not before she made the call. The satellite phone rested in her lap, black and inert. She tapped the power button with her thumb, hesitated, then pressed it again harder.

The screen came to life. Two rings, then a voice—flat, direct.

“Go.”

She took a breath, leveled her tone. “I have the package. It’s secure. Transfer complete.”

Barrow didn’t respond immediately. She pictured him seated somewhere cold and spotless, not even blinking, just listening for mistakes.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Any interference?”

“No. The guard let me through. No one followed.”

“You were seen?”

“Only by people who see me every day.”

He let that hang for a second longer than necessary. She knew why. Routine got people noticed. Familiar faces got remembered.

Barrow trusted her. But he didn’t trust anyone else.

“There’s one other thing,” she said.

Silence. The line was open. She kept going.

“There’s a journalist,” she said. “He was nosing around the lunar archive a few weeks back. Obsessed with the Cyclops footage. I approached him. Used it to steer him off course. Kept him close.”

Barrow still didn’t speak.

She looked up at the townhouse window. The light had gone off. A shape had moved inside—just enough to confirm what she already knew. He was still awake.

“I didn’t expect him to stick around,” she continued. “But he did. He got curious. Then, it got personal.”

She could hear her own voice tightening, even as she tried to keep it neutral. It didn’t matter. Barrow would hear the shift. He always did.

“I’ve let him stay at the house a few nights,” she said. “He doesn’t know anything about what’s going on, but he’s observant. He’s smart as well as charming in his own way. He’s the kind of guy who keeps asking questions even when he doesn’t know what he’s really asking. He’s just the curious sort.”

Barrow’s voice came back, low and dry. “Name?”

“James Flynn.”

“Should I know him?”

“He wrote a few books on conspiracy theories—JFK, Area 51, that sort of thing. He’s into fringe theories. The kind of stuff that gets him booked on cable news when someone needs a wild card.”

“Are you concerned about this journalist?” Barrow asked. “And do I need to be concerned?”

“He doesn’t know anything,” she said again, even if she didn’t completely believe it. “He’s a nuisance at worst, not a threat.”

Barrow held the silence for a moment then said, “What aren’t you telling me, Nike?”

Victoria looked back up toward the window. She couldn’t see anything now. She took a breath. “He’s former CIA.”

She didn’t need to see Barrow’s face to feel the change in posture.

“Former CIA,” he repeated.

She nodded even though he couldn’t see her. “He doesn’t know about you or the program. He thinks I’m just…” She stopped, rewound, and corrected herself. “He knows who I am. Everyone in the space program knows my face. But he doesn’t see the rest of it. He doesn’t know what I’ve done or why.”

Barrow’s voice came back flat. “How can you be sure?”

“I’m monitoring him,” she said. “He’s curious, but not dangerous.”

“CIA,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Former CIA,” she emphasized, saying it like it mattered.

“They don’t even trust themselves,” Barrow said. “The only thing you know is that you don’t know this man or what he’s up to.”

She could hear something else behind his words now. Not fear—he didn’t do fear—but urgency. They were close to the end, and he didn’t want loose threads dangling from the edges.

“I’ll have someone in Houston tonight,” he said.

“No.” The word left her mouth faster than she meant it to.

Silence.

She re-centered her voice. “Let me handle it.”

“Nike—”

“He’s not a threat,” she said. “Not yet. And if someone else comes in, it escalates. He’ll see it coming. If I handle it, it stays quiet.”

She could almost feel him weighing her loyalty against his own instincts.

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked,” she said. “You put me here for this exact reason.”

More silence. The phone was warm in her hand.

Finally, he said, “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“This isn’t a favor,” he said. “If I let you handle this, it gets handled. Permanently.”

She looked at the dark outline of her townhouse. She knew Flynn was inside. He was possibly making coffee and maybe wondering what she was doing right now.

“I understand,” she said.

Barrow’s voice softened—but only in volume, not tone. “Colorado. Bring the package. Burn everything else.”

The line went dead. Victoria lowered the phone and rested her head back against the seat. She stared up at the window. She didn’t want to hurt him. But this wasn’t about what she wanted. It was about what had to be done.

She started the engine. Headlights swept across the curb, catching nothing but asphalt and silence. She pulled forward slowly, turning toward home.

She was going to kill James Flynn.

52

HOUSTON, TEXAS

Flynn had just finished rinsing out a coffee mug when he heard her key in the door.

He glanced at the clock—half past midnight. Late, even for her. She was always working late—meetings, research, some last-minute security review that couldn’t wait until morning. But tonight, he felt the weight of the hour more than usual. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t texted ahead as she normally would.

He poured the last of the pot into his cup and leaned against the counter, waiting.

Then the lock turned.

Victoria entered the house with the same composed grace Flynn had come to expect. But there was something in the way her hand hovered near the doorframe, like she had to ground herself before moving forward. She set her bag down without speaking, peeled off her jacket, and hung it on the hook by the door.

Flynn gave her a half-smile. “Rough night?”

She didn’t answer right away. She moved to the sink, washed her hands like it mattered, then reached for a glass from the cabinet.

“I’ve had worse,” she said, filling the glass with water.

Flynn sipped his coffee. “Ever think about ditching all this space stuff, running a riverboat tour instead?”

That earned him a small smile, faint but real. It gave him something to hold onto. He watched her cross the kitchen, her movements tighter than usual, more deliberate. She was carrying something tonight—something just behind the eyes.

He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t.

“So what was it?” he asked. “Debrief? Artemis research? Or something more exotic?”

She looked up from her glass. “You always think it’s something exotic.”

“What can I say?”

She said, “You ever take a night off from the spy game?”

“You ever take a night off from whatever it is you do?”

That got him a raised eyebrow. But no answer.

He let the silence hang for a few seconds. “Look, I’m not prying. I just worry sometimes that I’m playing house with someone who still lives on a launchpad.”

Victoria leaned back against the counter. Her eyes met his, calm and steady. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Flynn believed her. Or at least, he wanted to.

She set the glass down and crossed to him. She stopped only a breath away. He could smell her, a sweet scent from a hint of perfume. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer.

She looked up at him. “You ever get tired of the couch?”

He blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that. Victoria had been careful every step of the way. Each shift in their relationship had been cautious, measured. A glance here, a shoulder touch there. But always with boundaries. Now this.

Flynn opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “Is that an invitation?”

She didn’t smile. Just held his gaze.

“You’re already here,” she said. “Why keep pretending you’re not?”

Flynn’s mind spun through possibilities. It felt real. She felt real. But something about the timing—after midnight, after a day she wouldn’t talk about—it scratched at the edges of his instincts.

Still, he wasn’t about to blow it. “You sure?”

“If I wasn’t, you’d know.”

That was probably true. But part of him—some hardwired, bloodhound part—filed it away: the words, the timing, the sudden shift in tone.

Victoria leaned into him, laid her head against his chest. Her skin was warm and steady without a hint of tremble.

“You overthink everything,” she said softly.

Flynn didn’t disagree. But as he followed her down the hallway, past the couch where he’d spent every night, he couldn’t help wondering if this was the moment she let him in.

Or was it something else?

Victoria stood barefoot on the tile, one hand on the open refrigerator door, staring at a tub of Greek yogurt on the top shelf. She closed the door, opened the drawer by the stove, and pulled out the largest knife she owned. Eight inches of clean, stainless steel.

This had been the plan: Wait until he drifted off to sleep then come back in quietly. She would make it fast, just under the ribs. With an upward cut, it would be over in seconds.

She’d run the motion in her mind while brushing her teeth. Imagined the follow-through as she undressed. Calculated the angle before she climbed atop him in bed.

But now, as she held the knife, she couldn’t move her hand. She set it down fast, harder than she meant to. The sound felt too loud in the quiet kitchen. She’d imagined doing it. Told herself she would. But it was a lie. She couldn’t do it. Not that way. She would need to find another method.

As she pushed the knife away from her across the countertop, she opened the cabinet above the sink and grabbed a short glass. Flynn didn’t drink much, but he liked having one before bed when the mood struck. Sometimes whiskey, sometimes bourbon, never anything sweet. She scanned the bottles on the counter, selected one, and poured a measure.

Victoria moved to the second drawer—back of the kitchen, where she kept things no one else ever looked for—and pulled out the first pill bottle.

It still had her name on it. A half-faded prescription label from last year—ten milligram tablets of zolpidem. Ambien. She’d stopped taking them after a week. The dreams were strange, and the blank spaces between them were worse.

Then she grabbed the next bottle: White label. Oxycodone—left over from a stress fracture during EVA drills two years ago. The prescription had expired, but the pills would still work.

She unscrewed the caps from both bottles and poured the remaining pills onto a cutting board. It was more than enough to do the job, especially with the alcohol she’d poured for him. Removing a wooden spoon from the drawer, she crushed the pills.

After a minute, she stared at the white powder. That would do it. It’d be quiet and untraceable. She reached for the glass.

Upon returning to the bedroom in a white NASA t-shirt, the hem brushing her thighs, bare legs catching the low lamplight.

Flynn smiled without meaning to. “Nice uniform.”

Victoria didn’t answer. She crossed the room with a slow, careful gait and handed him a glass.

He looked down. It was filled nearly to the rim.

“You already had your way with me,” he said. “No reason to get me drunk.”

He was joking, but she sat on the edge of the bed and didn’t laugh. She just looked at him for a moment, then turned her gaze toward the wall.

Flynn took a sip. It was strong, no ice. And it burned more than usual.

“Hey,” he said, softening his tone. “You okay?”

She nodded once. Didn’t speak.

Flynn watched her profile, the hard line of her jaw, the tension behind her eyes. She looked tired, like something had caught up to her all at once. It wasn’t regret exactly—but something close.

He wondered if she regretted sleeping with him. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t pushed for it. But now that it had happened, maybe she was reevaluating. Realigning.

Flynn hated that feeling. He didn’t like the idea of being someone’s misstep. He took another sip, bigger this time, pulling in more of the sharp liquid.

“If it was too fast,” he said, “I get it. We’ve both been in weird headspace lately with long days and stranger nights.”

She still didn’t say anything.

Flynn looked at her—really looked. Her eyes were locked somewhere across the room, unfocused. Her hands rested in her lap, too still. He set the glass down gently on the nightstand.

“Listen,” he said, voice softer now. “You don’t owe me anything. Not an explanation. Not a reason.”

She still didn’t move, so he kept going.

“I know I act like I’ve got all the answers, like I can out-think or out-talk anything in front of me. But with you⁠—”

He stopped. Took a breath.

“With you, I’m trying not to screw it up. That’s all I’ve been doing since we met. Trying to stay out of my own way.”

Her head dipped slightly, but her face didn’t change. Flynn shifted, propped himself up on one elbow.

“This wasn’t a stunt,” he said. “You didn’t imagine it. And I wasn’t chasing a story. If it meant nothing to you, okay. I’ll deal. But don’t sit there thinking it meant nothing to me.”

Still no reply.

“But if it did mean something,” he said, leaning toward her now, “if any part of it felt real—then I want you to know, I’m here. I’m in it.”

His hand reached out, just lightly brushed hers.

“I know it’s complicated,” he said. “You’ve got a life I can’t fully see. I’ve got a past I never fully let go of. But we’re both here now. That has to count for something.”

She looked at him then. Just for a moment. Her eyes shimmered, but not from tears. It was from the effort of holding something in. Flynn reached for his glass again. His fingers were slower than they’d been before. He didn’t notice.

“I’m just saying,” he murmured. “You’re not a mistake. And this isn’t either.”

He reached for his glass and took another large drink, hoping the alcohol would calm his nerves after opening himself up to her.

That’s when he saw the photo. The same one he’d seen before—Victoria and her squadron on deck. But this time he recognized the man next to her: Admiral Paul Barrow.

The first wave hit him. The silence felt uneven now. Tilted. Flynn took another swallow, more out of habit than desire. Even though the glass was almost empty, it was heavier than it had been a moment ago. Or maybe his hand was slower.

“You know him,” he said. It was his voice, but it sounded disembodied, as if spoken from someone else’s lips.

Flynn looked at her. He struggled to focus. His head felt off-center, not dizzy but just delayed, like his thoughts were running half a second behind his body.

He looked down at the glass. The swirl of amber, the faint cloudiness he hadn’t noticed before. He sniffed it, but didn’t detect anything unusual. But something was wrong.

He set the glass on the nightstand, but missed the coaster before speaking in a whisper: “Victoria.”

She looked over at him now, fully, and the expression on her face confirmed it. There wasn’t any guilt, but there was devastation.

Flynn reached for his phone on the nightstand. His hand shook as he got his fingers around the device, but she pulled it from his grasp and stepped back.

He looked up at her, blinking hard. His arms were heavy. His legs wouldn’t move. His vision was doubling at the edges.

She clutched the phone against her chest, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry.”

Flynn tried to speak. Nothing came.

Then she said it again. Softer. “I’m so sorry.”

And then, barely louder than a breath—he heard her voice: “I love you.”

Then everything went black.

53

COLORADO MOUNTAINS

Gunnery Sergeant Gideon Mace, USMC, was the man Barrow had chosen to replace Viper. Not as a stopgap, but as an upgrade. Where Viper had asked questions, Mace issued outcomes. No deliberation or conflict—just a man of action.

Barrow stood in the cold above the outer perimeter, hands in his coat pockets, watching through binoculars as Mace led a four-man ASP squad down the slope toward the gate.

They were moving toward a Cold War relic—a former missile installation buried into the mountain. The site was technically still government property, but off the books and barely operational, staffed only by civilians guarding the long-dead communications node.

Mace led his men with discipline, as he clearly set the tempo. He didn’t run. He didn’t crouch. He walked—carbine up, eyes forward, coat open to the wind.

Mace’s rifle wasn’t light or pretty—SIG Virtus, 11.5-inch barrel, heavier than it needed to be, and without a suppressor. He didn’t care who heard him. The FNX-45 rode low on Mace’s thigh—.45 ACP, built like a brick, louder than it needed to be. Just the way he liked it. He wore magazines balanced across his vest in a line like teeth.

Two guards stood at the inner gate, paper coffee cups in hand, backlit by flames leaping from a fire burning inside a barrel. Both men were armed, but relaxed. One of them turned at the sound of boots on gravel.

Barrow watched it happen in silence.

Mace fired twice. The first guard dropped before his coffee hit the ground. The second froze. Mace stepped in and fired once through the throat. Both down. Neither had drawn.

Barrow lowered the binoculars.

No radio chatter, no shouting. Just a clean breach. Once the gate opened, Mace’s team moved forward.

This was why he’d chosen the man. Not because he was necessarily better than Viper, but because he was pure, uncomplicated, and uncompromisable.

Viper killed when ordered. Mace never needed to be told.

Mace moved through the corridor with smooth, practiced steps, rifle angled low, but ready. The concrete walls were cold, the air still and stale. Lights flickered above—the kind of harsh fluorescents that hadn’t been serviced in years.

He cleared a corner, motioned his team to hold, then advanced.

The cleanup crew would handle the two dead bodies at the gate. They were no longer his concern. That was behind him; Mace always moved forward. The mission was to secure the facility, room by room. No alerts or survivors beyond the command roster.

They came to a steel door, halfway rusted shut. Mace slung his rifle and forced it open with three successive rams of his massive shoulder. Inside, rows of server racks blinked to life under backup power. He counted two terminals still running. The others were dead. One of the techs crept in behind him, eyes wide. He’d never seen blood before. He wasn’t a soldier—just a programmer along for the ride. Mace still hadn’t figured out how a man could be so essential to the mission and so pathetic at the same time.

“This is real,” the tech whispered. “This whole setup’s live.”

Mace didn’t reply. He scanned the corners, then moved on.

He didn’t love this part—inside the wire, cleaning up. He preferred clarity and targets and structure. But securing Fort Ascendant meant patience. It meant clearing hallways that hadn’t seen uniforms in decades, disabling old infrastructure, resetting the space for a new purpose.

He paused at a stairwell. Two levels below would be the old launch control center. The heart of the site. He checked the blueprint in his head. He’d memorized it on the flight in.

One of his men caught up—callsign Velcro. Solid, stealthy, and deadly in tight hand-to-hand combat.

“Lower level’s locked,” Velcro said. “Welded shut from the inside.”

Mace nodded. “Breaching kit?”

“Already down there.”

They descended in silence, boots echoing off the concrete. Each step took them deeper into the mountain.

At the landing, two more ASP operatives advanced from behind to wire charges to the door seam. The metal was pitted, oxidized. It had survived drills, inspections, and neglect. It wouldn’t survive C4.

Mace gave the nod. They backed off. The blast was sharp and surgical. The door folded inward with a metallic scream. He was the first one through.

The room beyond was circular and dim. Dead screens lined the walls. Cables hung from the ceiling like vines. Dust covered the consoles. One of the chairs had collapsed under its own weight, while a stack of punch cards sat untouched in a rusted tray. Mace swept his rifle across the room, checked for movement, then stepped inside.

“Junk,” he muttered. Nothing worth saving. Just ancient tech and empty space. But the bones were solid—that’s what mattered. And now it belonged to them.

He keyed his radio. “Control secured.”

The reply came back almost instantly—Barrow’s voice, calm and certain.

“Copy. Fort Ascendant is clear for Phase 2.”

Mace took one long breath. He looked at the dead consoles, the splintered tiles, the rusted panels. All of it outdated, all of it above his pay grade. He didn’t need to understand what it did. Someone else would flip the switches and type the codes. His job was simpler—keep them safe long enough to do it. He preferred it that way. Shields up, sword out. He’d have made a damn good Roman.

The convoy crested the final rise as dawn broke across the ridge line, gold light cutting open the Colorado horizon. The lead vehicles rolled in tight formation—no headlights, no comms chatter. Just engines and movement.

Barrow stood at the forward observation point, hands behind his back, watching Phase 2 of his plan unfold. The wind bit through his coat. He didn’t care. The cold kept a man focused. Altitude weeded out the weak—and Barrow thrived on it.

Below, the road narrowed into a defilade carved into the mountain. Reinforced concrete, chain-link fencing, a buried blast door sealed tight since the Cold War—all nameless, until now.

Fort Ascendant.

The first wave hit the perimeter—four GMV 1.1s, matte black with mounted mini-guns and smoke launchers. Then came the M1117 Guardians, dull gray, turrets empty but ready. Utility trucks followed, canvas-covered and packed with supplies—MREs, water, power cells, mobile towers, surveillance kits.

Then the muscle—Stryker ICVs. Not for intimidation but for defense. Barrow didn’t believe in symbolic control; he believed in firepower.

The last to arrive were the science and tech rigs—insulated, shock-mounted, stacked with cold-storage units, server arrays, and comms gear, the backbone of Star Shield. Without them, Fort Ascendant was just an old mountain shell. With them, it became what Barrow envisioned.

Movement surged across the site. Troopers fanned out. Engineers ran cables and tested signals. Communications gear lit up as temporary stations came online. Two UH-60s circled once and peeled off. The sky was theirs now.

Three ASP soldiers escorted the last of the civilian contractors off the grounds—old NORAD maintenance workers and a few confused techs who hadn’t gotten the new memo. They weren’t hostile. Just in the way.

Mace gave the order without ceremony.

A five-man fire team lined the civilians against the south retaining wall. No blindfolds. No final words. Just a sharp command and a controlled volley—chests and heads torn open in an instant.

The bodies dropped. No one spoke. Cleanup crews moved in with tarps and stretchers, ensuring the evidence would be incinerated before midday.

Barrow watched from the ridge, unmoved. The mission couldn’t tolerate exposure. Mace understood that. No hesitation, no debate. The right man, doing what was required.

Barrow stayed still as the transition unfolded. Months of planning, now in motion, no resistance or delays.

He watched it all from above—men hauling crates into bunkers, mobile command units sliding into place, satellite dishes rising against the horizon.

Phase Two was underway—exactly as he’d planned it.

54

FORT ASCENDANT, COLORADO

Commander Victoria Sloane stepped off the tilt-rotor into the thin mountain air. Fort Ascendant was active now—no longer a dead shell. The forward perimeter was sealed with triple-layer fencing, motion sensors, and portable radar. GMVs patrolled the outer loop while Guardian APCs idled near the inner checkpoints. A mobile surface-to-air battery covered the southern ridge. Portable launchers faced the switchback road leading up from the valley—if the military came, they’d be seen long before they got close.

Victoria passed a row of ASP troopers unloading crates of communications hardware. No one saluted. This place wasn’t about ceremony.

Inside the command dome, she found Barrow at the central operations table, studying a live satellite feed. He wore fleece under his combat jacket. His hair was wind-blown, his face unshaven. He looked more alive than she’d seen him in months.

She approached and offered the secure drive. “Final Star Shield data. Alignment sequences. Override keys. It’s all here.”

Barrow took the drive and held it a moment. He didn’t move toward the console.

Instead, he turned and handed it to a waiting tech—a civilian in a gray ASP windbreaker, clipboard tucked under one arm, eyes sharp but uncertain.

“Straight to systems,” Barrow said. “Start with satellite telemetry and work forward. I want full diagnostic readouts before the hour’s out.”

“Yes, sir,” the tech said, already moving.

Victoria watched him hustle across the dome and disappear into the comms annex.

Barrow turned back to her. “Seventy-two hours. That’s what they’re saying. Once they run the alignment checks, purge the redundancies, and integrate the override keys, we’ll have full control. Star Shield will be operational.”

Victoria said nothing.

Barrow turned toward her. He didn’t speak right away, just looked at her. Studying her face. Then he turned his attention back to the screen.

“You look like you’ve been up for days,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

He nodded slightly. “Flynn.”

Still nothing.

“I know that look, Nike.”

She kept her voice steady. “Flynn is handled.”

He offered no reply, no praise, no recognition. Just a subtle narrowing of his eyes.

She stared past him at the console. She could still see the rim of the glass in her mind—Flynn’s hand around it, the warmth in his voice, the moment he realized something was wrong.

Handled.

It was the word Barrow used when something needed to disappear. And she’d said it like she meant it.

Barrow turned back to the monitors. “Phase Two is on track. We’ll lock the network in three days.”

“And if the Pentagon sends someone early?” she asked.

“They’ll find a very secure mountain with no signal in or out and a full defense grid covering every approach. If they try to breach the outer line, we’ll bury them.”

Victoria nodded, but the words hit differently now. Bury them. She’d buried something already.

Barrow kept his focus on the readouts. “This is the last step. The satellites come online, the system locks, and we hold the keys. Nothing else matters.”

He glanced back at her once more. “You did what had to be done.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

“Regret is a luxury we can’t afford,” Barrow said.

“I’m not asking for it.”

The admiral didn’t press further. He turned back to the screens.

Victoria looked past him toward the ridge—toward the outside world that didn’t know this mountain had already fallen.

Flynn was dead. Not by mistake, certainly not by accident. He was dead because she made it happen. She planned it, executed it, and fulfilled the assignment. But none of that changed what it cost. She hadn’t let it show. But the weight hadn’t gone anywhere. And she didn’t know how long she could keep it from showing.

“Phase Two is the real threshold,” he said. “Securing the base, protecting the equipment—that’s just logistics. But once we own the sky? That’s the shift.”

Victoria nodded slowly. “And once the system’s operational?”

Barrow didn’t look away from the screen. “We target threats to the country. No red tape or oversight. If someone moves against us—foreign or domestic—we act. We’re not here to make noise. We’re here to survive what comes next.”

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t boasting. Just stating facts.

Victoria looked at the screen again. Six satellites blinking green and one red. When all went green, Admiral Barrow would be more powerful than any man in history.

Only three more days.

55

VIRGINIA

Senator Quentin Danbury stood in the doorway of his drawing room, one hand resting lightly on the carved railing, the other cradling a glass of Blanton’s. The evening light caught the white trim and crown moldings just right—his wife always said this was the hour the house looked its best.

Across the room, near a bust of Hamilton and a portrait of James Madison, stood Mr. White.

The man looked like he’d stepped out of a black-and-white photograph—angular, underfed, and precisely put together. His suit was flawless, the kind of tailoring reserved for heads of state and Hollywood elite.

Murder sure was a lucrative business.

White moved like someone who’d been taught not just how to walk, but how to arrive. Nothing he did was impulsive. Every glance, every step—it all felt pre-measured, like he’d practiced it all in a mirror until it met his standard. And while he hadn’t said a word, his eyes surveyed the room—the crown moldings, the antique globe, the Virginia portraits—like he was quietly pleased to find himself somewhere that didn’t offend his sense of order.

Danbury despised him, though not for the killing. Danbury could stomach that. It was the posture, the air of superiority, and the quiet disdain that came with Mr. White’s every silence, like the rest of the world bored him.

But Danbury didn’t show even a hint of his contempt.

Danbury gave him the smile that won primaries. “I’ve hosted presidents in this room, you know,” Danbury said. “Bush—W, not his father—Obama; they sat right where you’re standing. Well—maybe not exactly like that.”

White didn’t saying anything.

Ghoulish bastard.

Danbury stepped toward the long cherrywood table, running his hand along the polished edge. “Let me guess,” he said with a velvet whisper. “You’re here to close a door. Barrow sent you. That right?”

Silence.

Danbury nodded. “Thought so,” he said. “I can respect a man who takes his job seriously. But here’s the truth.” He set his glass down. “You and I—we’re not in the room anymore. Barrow is, and it’s a table for one. He’s in his mountain fortress with his private army, his lady astronaut, and his miracle toys in the sky ready to pulverize his enemies with death rays from outer space. We gave him all of that, and now he doesn’t need us at all.”

Danbury turned and faced him squarely. “You tie up loose ends. I get it. He’s done with me. But have you stopped to wonder: maybe he’s done with you, too?”

Danbury had spent decades reading rooms. White was listening even if he provided no feedback to that effect.

“Here’s what I propose,” Danbury continued. “Not a threat, not a plea—just a little professional courtesy. We could call it a compromise.”

He reached for a folder resting on a marble-topped side table, next to a stack of early American biographies. He opened it, slid a page forward.

“The man’s name is Reece. Logistics contractor. Moved sensitive cargo for Barrow under a shell company—Ember Creek Logistics. Barrow cut him out two phases ago. The man’s unhappy, underpaid, and sitting on documentation.”

White glanced at the paper but didn’t touch it.

“You kill me, that’s one job,” Danbury said, voice smooth. “One check, maybe your last from that man holed up in Colorado. But if you talk to Reece—well, you might find yourself holding the keys to a lot more. A whole chain of quiet work, far from politics. And profitable too. I can see you’re used to a certain standard of living.” Danbury paused before adding, “You don’t strike me as the short-sighted type.”

It was almost imperceptible, but Danbury, a master at reading an opponent’s body language, caught it. Not quite a twitch, but a definite tell. He’d made an impression on the ominous Mr. White.

Danbury gave him the smile that won fundraisers. “You look like a man who appreciates craftsmanship. I assume the knives in your kitchen are German.”

White’s eyes moved—first to a mounted saber above the fireplace, then along the walls, where curated portraits and antique maps hung with precise spacing. The hardwood floors were polished to a muted shine. Everything balanced, everything in its place.

His voice, when it came, was smooth and distant. “Dresden steel. Twelve-inch chef’s knife. Custom grind.” He looked back at Danbury. “I don’t cook. But I keep the kitchen immaculate. There’s a discipline in sharp things, especially when they’re where they’re supposed to be.”

Danbury let that hang a second, then lifted his glass again. “Hard to argue with that.”

White took another slow look around the room—not to assess threat, but to assess taste. The symmetry. The restraint. The restraint that suggested real power, not just wealth.

“This house,” White said, “doesn’t feel designed. More like it was curated.”

Danbury raised an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”

“An observation,” White said. “Most men decorate to impress, like they’re putting on a costume for their house. Yours doesn’t pretend. It knows exactly what it is.”

His eyes settled on Danbury again, this time with something new behind them. Not approval or warmth, but something close to respect. It was measured, begrudging, real.

Danbury offered the faintest nod. He wouldn’t give the man satisfaction, but he’d take the inch. That was all he needed.

Danbury didn’t miss a beat, continuing with a genuine smile for once. “Of course I owe most of the credit to my wife, Elena.”

Danbury had him. Not all the way, not yet, but enough to open the door. Then the senator gestured toward the bourbon. “I won’t insult you by offering a drink. Men like you never touch what they didn’t pour themselves. But if you’re considering options, that’s one of them. Verify the name. Go see for yourself.”

White didn’t speak for a moment. He let his gaze linger on the saber above the hearth, then the portrait of James Monroe, then the line of spines along the bookshelf—Jefferson, Adams, Eisenhower. He looked, briefly, like a man who might stay. In another life.

Then he turned back to Danbury. “This was... unexpected.”

Danbury offered nothing.

White reached into his coat and pulled out a black leather glove. He slipped it on slowly, fingertip by fingertip, as if he had all the time in the world.

“I don’t like being sent on fool’s errands,” he said. “But I admire a man who knows how to buy himself time.” He met Danbury’s eyes one last time. “You won’t see me again unless the name you gave me turns out to be worthless.”

He moved toward the front door, his footsteps soundless on the polished hardwood. Just before stepping out, he paused at the threshold and glanced back.

“You’ve got a fine home, Senator.”

56

The ceiling was beige. Fluorescent light buzzing just above his line of sight. The sheets were stiff. His mouth tasted like copper and gauze.

Flynn blinked. Once and then twice. A dull pressure throbbed behind his eyes. His limbs felt slow, like they didn’t belong to him.

He was alive. He turned his head. A man sat in the corner. Lean, muscular frame. Close-cut hair. Black t-shirt, forearms crossed. A military man.

“Good,” the man said. “You’re awake.”

Flynn opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He tried again. “Where⁠—”

“Houston. St. Joseph’s,” the man said. “You stopped breathing in your sleep. Paramedics got there just in time.”

Flynn’s throat burned. He coughed. “Who—are you?”

The man stood and stepped closer. “Chief Petty Officer Travis Calder. U.S. Navy,” he said. “But most people call me Viper.”

Flynn’s eyes narrowed.

“I was looking for Commander Sloane,” Viper said. “Found you instead, on the floor, unresponsive. I thought you were dead, but the docs figured out it was an overdose fast enough to pump your stomach. You’re lucky.”

Flynn tried to sit up. He regretted it immediately. Viper didn’t move to help either, letting Flynn struggle until he gave up.

“Why were you looking for her?” Flynn asked.

Viper took a deep breath. “Before I tell you anything, Mr. Flynn, I need to know that you’re willing to help me.”

“Help you with what?”

“I know you’ve been doing what you do, digging for a conspiracy. And let me tell you, there’s a big one here. But I need to know that you can help me expose Commander Sloane along with a slew of other people.”

“Why Commander Sloane?”

“Because she’s in deep with Admiral Barrow,” Viper said. “And I was hoping—stupidly—that I could talk her out of it before it was too late.”

“Admiral Barrow?” Flynn asked.

“You know him?”

“I’m familiar. Go on.”

Viper hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. “I was Admiral Barrow’s lead operative. His number one trigger man. I was in an ASP unit. Every time Barrow had a mess that needed cleaning, he pointed and I pulled the trigger—no questions, no regrets.” His jaw tightened. “But after a while, the questions come anyway.”

Flynn studied him closely. “Why’d you turn?”

“Because I realized loyalty only counts if it goes both ways,” Viper said. “Barrow left two of my men to rot, painted them as traitors to cover his own ass. Good men, who’d served their country honorably, branded as criminals because it suited his narrative. That’s when I saw him clearly—a coward hiding behind a uniform.”

Viper paused, eyes distant for a brief second before snapping back into hard focus. “I made the call to leave. Not easy, not clean. But now, I’m going back. I owe it to my team—to the men I lost—to finish this. And if I go down stopping Barrow, that’s redemption enough for me.”

Viper didn’t waste time. “Barrow thinks Russia’s going to strike first,” he said. “Not if, but when. He’s convinced we won’t see it coming until it’s too late.”

Flynn narrowed his eyes. “So what—he’s preparing a counterstrike?”

“He’s planning a preemptive strike,” Viper said. “Take out Moscow first, then every Russian military asset on the planet. No hesitation and certainly no warning. That’s what Star Shield is for. It’s not missile defense. It’s an orbital attack platform with first-strike capabilities that humans could only imagine in science-fiction stories.”

Flynn’s voice dropped. “That’ll start World War III.”

“Yeah,” Viper said. “Barrow knows that. He wants it. He believes he can win.”

Flynn said, “That man is insane.”

“Star Shield gives Barrow EMP technology that can cripple entire regions—shut down every radar, missile defense, satellite, drone, tank, jet, car, and electric scooter. Then he picks the targets. Conventional missiles first. Nukes if he feels he has to.”

Flynn looked away for a second, then back. “My god,” he said.

Viper kept going. “Barrow is a patriot. No doubt about that. But he’s also a paranoid, delusional sociopath. He doesn’t trust the Pentagon or the President, though I can’t blame him. But he thinks he’s the only one with the guts to pull the trigger.”

Flynn swallowed. “And Victoria?”

“She delivered the software,” Viper said. “You were the last loose end.”

Flynn looked away.

“There’s no stopping this with a full assault,” Viper continued. “That base is a fortress. Elevation, terrain, surveillance, and almost 300 of the nation’s most highly trained special forces combat specialists hunkered down ready for anything. He’s buried deep inside a mountain—even air strikes would fail to do any damage. You’ve been to Afghanistan; I’ve seen your file. Their enemies have been assaulting those mountains for centuries with little to show for it. That’s what Barrow has now. But he’s not just holed up and playing defense; he’s also controlling the most powerful weapon in history.”

Flynn saw where this kid’s mind was headed. “You’re going in,” he said.

Viper nodded once. “Solo op. Old-school. Get inside, disable the uplink, cut the power before launch.”

“I want in,” Flynn said.

Viper didn’t laugh. He didn’t have that kind of face. “You just got your stomach pumped. You’ve got no clearance, no uniform, and no backup. And—” he hesitated.

“I’m old?” Flynn said. “You’re good. I get it. You could be the best. But you go in alone, and there’s no one to cover your blind side.”

Viper didn’t answer.

Flynn kept going. “You’re used to ops where everyone’s trained, where the objective’s clear. This isn’t clean. You’re walking into a sealed base full of locked systems and people who shoot first.”

Still nothing from Viper.

Flynn leaned forward. “You need backup. Not muscle—experience. You need a partner who’s snuck into black sites, dug through the dirt, and walked out clean. You need someone who knows how to get in without setting off alarms—and how to improvise if it goes sideways. “

Viper finally spoke. “And that’s you?”

Flynn didn’t blink. “That’s me. I’ve run more quiet ops than I can count—before I ever had a press badge. You might not like the way I work, but you need someone who’s done this in civilian clothes. You go in solo, you better be right about every step. One bad variable, and you’re just another ghost in the mountain.”

Viper stared at him for a long moment then gave a slight nod.

Viper looked him over. “You sure you’re not dead yet?”

“I’ll recover on the way,” Flynn said.

“We need to make a stop first,” Viper said.

Flynn watched the windows above, the narrow brick building tucked into the corner of a quiet street in Georgetown. The lights were off. Curtains drawn.

“Whose place is this?” he asked.

“While I was waiting for you to rise from the dead, someone who used to be close to Barrow gave me a call,” Viper said, explaining how Senator Danbury gave White a phony story to throw him off the scent just long enough to call for help. “He said he knew a way into Barrow’s mountain hideout. But he wouldn’t give it up until a certain problem got handled.”

Flynn turned to him. “What kind of problem?”

“A man,” Viper said. “Barrow’s hitman. Cleans up messes. Name’s Mr. White.”

Flynn frowned. “And he lives here?”

“For now.”

Flynn nodded toward the satchel slung across Viper’s back. “So you’re going to take care of this?”

“No,” Viper said. “White knows me. He sees me, we lose the element of surprise. And you don’t want this guy to know you’re coming for him, if you know what I mean.”

Flynn did and he hated it. “I don’t do this sort of thing anymore.”

Viper pierced him with a glare that was half anger, half disappointment. “What happened to the guy who was going to watch my back?”

“That’s different,” Flynn said. “That’s the op. This is something personal for you.”

“Are you serious?” Viper said.

Flynn didn’t answer. His mind was already back in Australia—a man’s home, his pistol, blood on the polished floor. He’d told himself it was justified. That was the lie that helped him sleep.

Viper’s voice dropped. “You want in on this? You want to help stop Barrow? Then get in the game. It’s all part of the same op.”

Flynn thought of what Barrow had done—what he was still capable of. This wasn’t just another story anymore. It was a threat to everything he used to fight for. He couldn’t walk away from that. Not now. Not when it counted.

He reached out, took the pistol from Viper’s hand and stuffed it into his waistband.

Viper looked at him with hesitation. “Can you do this, old man?” he asked. “We’ll only get one chance.”

Flynn opened the car door. “I’ll call you when it’s time to clean up White’s body.”

Flynn closed the apartment door behind him and took a few steps inside. He didn’t announce himself.

The place was pristine. White walls, dark wood, brushed steel. Every item had its place. Black leather, sharp angles, zero clutter. There was no scent of food, no hint that anyone had ever eaten here. Not even a coat draped over a chair. Flynn had been in interrogation rooms that felt more lived-in.

Mr. White stood near the far window, holding a hardcover book in one hand. He was barefoot on the polished floor, dressed in pressed slacks and a black sweater. His frame was impossibly lean, all sharp angles and long limbs, like someone who’d been sculpted for elegance, not warmth.

He didn’t move or speak. But Flynn saw it. Just under the surface. But it wasn’t fear or anger.

Annoyance.

He’d been caught off guard—and a man like White hated that.

Flynn raised the pistol in his right hand, slowly, not aiming it. Just showing it. “I didn’t come here to shoot you, but I wasn’t sure how this would go. I just want to talk.”

White shut the book and placed it on a side table without looking down. The edge of the spine lined up perfectly with the table’s edge. “I assume this is about Senator Danbury.”

Flynn slipped the gun back into his waistband. “The Senator fed you a fake lead,” he said. “You looked into it and realized he was full of shit.”

White turned to face him fully, calm and measured. “Once I knew that bastard lied, I figured someone would come after me. I just didn’t expect them to show up here.”

“I get it,” Flynn said. “You don’t let things slide. Someone lies to you, they pay for it. It’s how you do business.”

White’s expression didn’t change.

Flynn stepped forward. “But I’m asking you to let this one go. Let Danbury live. Me and Viper—we’re heading for Colorado. Barrow’s dug in. We’re going to take him out.”

White tilted his head, just a fraction. “And you think I care about your mission?”

“I think you care about being used,” Flynn said. “Barrow sent you after Danbury, then cut you off. No updates. No fallback plan. You’re not going to get paid for this hit. He left you out in the cold.”

White walked to the kitchen counter and picked up a clean wine glass. He turned it in his fingers, looking at the curve of the glass as if he was looking for a flaw that wasn’t there. “You think I’m still doing this for the money.”

“No,” Flynn replied. “I think you’re doing it because Danbury made you look foolish. And that doesn’t sit well.”

White gently placed the glass on the counter. “It’s not about appearances. It’s about principle.”

“Then you already know how this ends,” Flynn said. “Revenge doesn’t fix anything. It just leaves a hole you can never fill.”

White glanced toward the window but said nothing.

“Killing for money, for your country, for a mission—that’s a transaction,” Flynn said. “You do the job, you live with it. But revenge? That takes something out of you, something you don’t get back.”

White still didn’t move.

Flynn continued, “Let us do this. Four days. Give us that, and if we fail, if Barrow’s still standing—you do whatever you want.”

White turned from the window and looked at him.

“I’ve heard of you, James Flynn,” White said. “You’re not what I expected.”

“I get that a lot.”

“You are sincere,” White said. “It’s a lost quality. That’s why you’re still standing.”

Flynn gave a single nod. “Fair enough.”

White walked to the end of the counter and rested both hands on the edge. “Four days. That’s all you get.”

Flynn gave a single nod. “Fair enough.”

He turned toward the door. Before he reached it, White spoke again.

“You think you’re not a killer anymore,” White said. “But it’s still in you.”

“Maybe so, but I didn’t kill anyone today. I call that a good start.”

“White’s out,” Flynn said, trying to be vague.

Viper nodded. “Good. I’ll call Danbury.”

He pulled out his phone and started to dial. Flynn stared straight ahead, jaw tight.

“I didn’t kill him,” he said.

Viper froze, thumb just above the call button. He stared at the screen for a second, then tapped to end the call before Danbury could answer.

“You didn’t kill him?” Viper asked, voice flat. “What the hell did you do then?”

“I gave him a choice,” Flynn said. “Told him what we were doing. He gave us four days.”

“You told him the plan.”

“I told him enough,” Flynn said. “He was going to walk into Danbury’s house and put two in the back of his head. That didn’t happen. Goal accomplished.”

Viper just stared at him.

“You said protect Danbury,” Flynn said. “He’s protected.”

Viper hit redial and tapped the speaker button.

“Tell me he’s dead,” Danbury said without preamble.

Flynn watched Viper, waiting to see what he’d say.

“It’s been taken care of,” Viper said, calm and precise.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Danbury said. “Is he dead?”

Viper said, “You really want me to get specific on a cell phone call?”

Danbury huffed. “I suppose not,” the senator said. “You want your reward, I assume. Old NORAD tunnel under the west ridge. It was used for supply during the construction phase. Barrow’s people secured the main entrances, but I doubt they even know the old tunnel exists. Slips you right into the lower utility corridors.”

Flynn listened closely, committing every word to memory.

“You’ll need cutting tools,” Danbury added. “The inner hatch hasn’t been opened in years. Everything past that… well. That’s your problem.”

“Understood,” Viper said.

Danbury’s voice shifted tone. “Just tell me—how did you do it? I can’t imagine it went down easy.”

Viper looked at Flynn. “It was lot easier than you’d think. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you, which I’m not.”

Danbury chuckled. “Good enough. I’ll leave the method to the professionals. Just glad he’s off the board.”

57

Senator Danbury stood alone in his study, the house quiet around him. A fire crackled low in the hearth. Elena was upstairs, asleep. He hadn’t touched his drink.

He stared at the old saber above the mantle. The weight of the past—honor, sacrifice, the American ideal—all carved in steel and mounted for show.

Flynn and Viper were brave men, no question. But brave men died every day.

He moved to the desk and opened the bottom drawer. Inside sat a secured SAT phone. Government issue with scrambling capabilities, the kind they didn’t hand out anymore unless you still had strings to pull.

Danbury hesitated. He’d tried to keep his options open. But the math wasn’t changing. If Flynn and Viper failed—and they probably would—Barrow would win. Not quietly. Not incrementally. He’d win with total control of the sky.

And after that?

Danbury imagined the broadcast: Barrow behind the curtain, directing the nation through a pliable figurehead. Someone respectable. Familiar.

Someone like me.

He could almost hear Barrow’s voice: Let the Senator have the microphone. He looks good in front of a flag.

It was tempting. The fastest route to the Oval Office he could imagine. But he knew better. Barrow had already made his decision—he considered the senator a liability—a placeholder, not a partner.

Barrow didn’t want a government. He wanted a regime.

Danbury looked toward the secure phone again. Flynn and Viper wouldn’t get far alone. Not against ASP. Not without firepower.

If he was going to make a move, it had to be now.

He picked up the phone, and pressed the line he hoped still worked.

“General Maddox, please.”

58

6 KM FROM FORT ASCENDANT, COLORADO

Flynn zipped up the black insulated jacket, the night air slicing through him like a blade. The distant ridge was black against a sky filled with hard, bright stars. The mountain loomed—dark, silent, and watchful.

Behind him, Viper knelt over an open case, checking gear with swift efficiency. He worked in silence, tightening the sling on his MK18 Mod 1—short-barreled, suppressed, built for close quarters. A holographic EOTech sat on top, zeroed in to twenty-five meters. Nothing flashy. Nothing extra. Just the tools that worked.

Three spare mags rode front-center on his vest. Flashbang on the left shoulder strap, a breaching torch slung vertical along his back. Sidearm was a Glock 19X—coyote frame, black slide, suppressed and holstered high for a clean draw. Two blades: one horizontal across the chest, another tucked inside his belt.

Every piece of gear had been selected for one thing—get in, move fast, stay quiet, kill only if necessary. And if necessary, kill clean.

Flynn’s gear was lighter, built for movement over firepower. Civilian clothes—dark thermals under a matte soft-shell jacket. Neutral colors, no logos. Just enough insulation to beat the mountain air without slowing him down.

He wore no armor, not even a vest. Just a compact backpack with cutting tools, schematics, and a low-power tablet. Strapped to his right thigh was a pistol Viper had handed him that morning—a Glock 19X, the same sidearm Viper carried. Coyote tan. Suppressor-ready, but Flynn left it bare. It was lighter that way.

He didn’t plan on firing it. But he’d spent enough time in war zones to know planning meant nothing when bullets started flying. If it came down to kill or be killed, that wasn’t a choice. That was survival.

In his left jacket pocket: lock picks, a flashlight the size of a finger, and one stolen keycard, courtesy of Danbury’s files. No comms gear. Just a bone-conduction earpiece paired to Viper’s set—short-range, whisper-quiet. Enough to talk if they got separated.

Viper watched him prep. “I have an extra,” he said, referring to his rifle.

Flynn shook his head and checked his watch again. Only sixteen hours until Barrow would have full access to Star Shield. It was not nearly enough time, but it was all they had. After what felt like endless hours cramped in Viper’s car and silent, cautious preparation in a roadside motel, they were finally close. Flynn’s stomach still burned from Victoria’s poison cocktail, but he’d felt worse. He pushed it aside. They still had a decent hike across rocky ground to the tunnel and would need to rest, even if just for an hour.

The surveillance grid would be blind for five minutes once they got to the hatch. Danbury had flagged the window—a routine maintenance cycle buried deep in the old NORAD infrastructure. One diagnostic system still ran on a separate power loop, kicking in at the top of every hour and briefly cutting live surveillance to preserve memory. Just enough time to slip through if they moved fast.

“We’ll have less than five minutes to cut through the hatch and get inside,” Viper said, voice low. “After that, surveillance loops reset, and we lose our advantage.”

Flynn nodded once. “Then we make it in three.”

Viper looked up at him. “Once we’re inside, there’s no turning back.”

Flynn nodded. “Who said anything about turning back?”

Viper gave a tight nod and strapped the compact breaching torch onto his vest. Flynn picked up the remaining gear.

Flynn met Viper’s eyes. “Ready?”

Viper rose to his feet, rifle tucked tight against his shoulder. His eyes held no hesitation, no fear—just quiet resolve.

They moved forward into the darkness, the countdown relentless in Flynn’s head.

Sixteen hours and change, time slipping away faster than he could hold it.

59

FORT ASCENDANT, COLORADO

Gideon Mace stood in the entry bay of the central operations dome, the rock walls cold around him. Across from him stood a squad of five ASP soldiers, their eyes locked forward, waiting for instructions. They were disciplined, capable, and loyal—just as he’d trained them.

Star Shield’s weapons were not yet online, but satellite imagery had picked up heat signatures near the old NORAD access tunnel outside Fort Ascendant. The hatch had been sealed for decades, but obviously someone believed it would be a fine way to infiltrate the base. Mace was not about to let that happen.

He knew there was only one man crazy and confident enough to assault the mountain fortress. And that same man was the only one trained to actually have a fighting chance to pull it off. Viper was in the wind. It was only a matter of time before he showed himself.

Viper knew this place—knew it better than almost anyone. He’d helped Barrow design the internal security flow, advised on the structural modifications when they converted the old missile base into something leaner, deadlier. If there was a way in, Viper would find it.

Mace almost smiled.

He wanted it to be Viper. The bastard had taken what should’ve been his—Barrow’s trust, Barrow’s praise, the command that had been within reach until Viper showed him up. And now Viper was a traitor, crawling back through the tunnels like a ghost.

Good.

Let him come.

“You’ll move quietly and set up just inside the tunnel,” he said. “We seem to have some visitors.”

He saw no flicker of doubt in their faces. Mace had conditioned that out of them long ago. They didn’t need to understand their orders; they only needed to follow them. The fewer questions asked, the cleaner the result. That was why Barrow trusted him—Mace delivered outcomes, not problems.

One of the soldiers adjusted his grip on his weapon, a subtle gesture that drew Mace’s attention. He studied the man carefully—young, strong, perhaps a touch overeager. That eagerness could be honed and harnessed.

“These aren’t amateurs,” Mace continued, keeping his voice low and precise. “It’s likely that one of them was ASP, call-sign Viper. He used to stand exactly where you’re standing. Now he’s a traitor. Remember that.”

Mace allowed the words to settle in the room. Treason was a personal insult to him. Loyalty wasn’t complicated; it was binary. You chose a side and stayed. Men who changed allegiance once could do it again. They weren’t worth forgiving or even understanding.

“Neutralize the threat swiftly,” Mace said. “No warnings. No prisoners.”

A soldier near the back shifted slightly, glancing toward the tunnel entrance behind them. Mace met his gaze and held it until the man turned away. He’d long since learned the power of silence. Words could deceive, but silence exposed a man’s fear and his uncertainty. Mace rarely spoke unless necessary, preferring actions to carry meaning. Words were tools of politicians and manipulators. Admiral Barrow could keep that role.

He drew a slow breath, considering his own position carefully. His orders were explicit: remain close to Barrow at all times. Personal bodyguard, shadow, executioner. He preferred the field, but orders weren’t open to preference. His obedience had no gray areas.

“Move now,” he said.

The squad slipped away quietly, disappearing into the corridor leading to the access tunnel. Mace remained behind, feeling a tinge of irritation—not at his orders, but at the necessity of them. Barrow was powerful, decisive, but still vulnerable. Vulnerability was weakness. And weakness required men like Gideon Mace to exist.

He turned and headed back toward the command dome, footsteps steady, unhurried. Whatever visitors waited out there in the mountain darkness, he knew they had already made their fatal mistake.

They had underestimated him.

60

OUTSIDE NORAD ACCESS TUNNEL

Flynn moved carefully behind Viper, his breath shallow, ears straining for any sound beyond the scrape of Viper’s breaching tool against metal. Sparks flickered briefly in the tunnel entryway, falling harmlessly onto the cold concrete.

“Two minutes,” Viper murmured. The heavy steel hatch groaned quietly as he worked the torch flame in a precise and controlled manner.

Flynn glanced behind them at the wide-open Colorado landscape. He hated tunnels—no room to maneuver, nowhere to go if something went wrong. The memory of another dark corridor in Kandahar flashed through his mind: panicked breathing, shouting in languages he didn’t understand, the echo of his heartbeat trapped beneath solid rock. Flynn shook it off. Stay focused, he told himself. That was another life.

Viper extinguished the flame and pulled at the handle, bracing with his shoulder. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, with a sharp creak, the hatch swung open. The air inside was stale and cold, heavy with the metallic tang of disuse.

Flynn stepped inside, scanning quickly with his flashlight. The corridor stretched ahead, tight and empty. “We’re clear,” he whispered.

Viper stepped through behind him and eased the hatch shut, careful to avoid making any unnecessary noise. Flynn watched him closely. Every move Viper made was precise, calculated—nothing wasted. He’d worked with plenty of good soldiers, but Viper was something different. Whatever he’d done under Barrow, Flynn knew the man had chosen the right side now. That was enough.

They advanced quietly, navigating the tight passageway. Flynn was aware of each second ticking away. Barrow was somewhere above them, surrounded by trained killers and locked inside his personal fortress. He had the high ground, the numbers, and all the resources. Flynn forced that thought away and focused instead on the dark hallway ahead, counting on surprise to level the playing field.

“We’re almost to the inner corridor,” Viper whispered, pausing to check their position on his tablet, the dim glow illuminating the hard lines of his face. “Utility hub is just around the next bend.”

Flynn kept his hand off of the Glock but checked to make sure he could access it quickly if necessary.

The hallway tightened further, and Flynn felt his pulse quicken. They rounded the corner, stepping into a larger maintenance junction. Pipes and conduits ran overhead, tangled like spiderwebs.

Viper abruptly froze.

Flynn stopped just behind him. “What is it?”

Viper raised one hand slowly, indicating silence. He stared intently into the shadows ahead, body tense and still. Flynn strained his eyes, listening carefully. Silence pressed down around them.

Then Flynn heard it—faint, almost imperceptible. Footsteps somewhere ahead in the darkness.

They weren’t alone.

Flynn and Viper stepped carefully into the larger maintenance junction—a high-ceilinged utility hub lined with steel conduits, electrical panels, and abandoned equipment racks. Crates and metal containers, stacked unevenly, cast heavy shadows beneath the dim emergency lighting.

Flynn scanned the room quickly. Plenty of cover, but something about it felt wrong. Too quiet, too still.

Viper froze again, rifle raised. Flynn stopped dead beside him, heart pounding. A sudden metallic click echoed sharply through the darkness ahead—the unmistakable sound of a safety selector switching from safe to fire.

“Ambush,” Viper whispered sharply.

He and Flynn scrambled sideways behind a heavy equipment crate just as gunfire erupted, deafening in the tight, enclosed space. Bullets punched through metal, scattering sparks and debris. Flynn crouched low, instinctively gripping his pistol. He needed to improvise—and fast.

Across the room, Viper returned fire with controlled, suppressed bursts. Flynn watched him coolly engage targets, moving smoothly between points of cover. He dropped two attackers swiftly, then took cover as the remaining three intensified their assault.

Flynn glanced upward. Above their attackers, heavy electrical conduits ran along the ceiling, secured by old, worn brackets. He traced their path quickly, then spotted a large rust-streaked emergency breaker panel on the wall a few yards away. An idea took shape.

“Cover me!” Flynn shouted.

Viper didn’t hesitate. He opened up again, forcing the soldiers to duck behind cover as Flynn sprinted across the room. Rounds snapped past him, painfully close, but Flynn didn’t slow. He reached the breaker panel, flipped the rusted safety latch, and yanked open the panel door.

Inside, thick industrial-grade fuses glowed dimly. He drew back sharply, then fired three quick shots into the wiring. The panel erupted in sparks and white-hot arcs of electricity. For a split second, Flynn feared he’d miscalculated.

Then, above the soldiers, the heavy conduit burst in a dazzling shower of sparks and jagged metal, dropping loose and crashing down heavily. It smashed onto crates and equipment, scattering debris and forcing the ASP operatives to dive for safety. They were trapped by heavy metal debris.

Flynn sprinted back, lungs burning, sliding into cover next to Viper.

“Nice,” Viper said, voice tight, impressed despite himself.

“Wasn’t sure that would work,” Flynn admitted.

“Me neither,” Viper said. “Don’t do it again.”

They peered around their cover. The ASP soldiers, dazed but still alive, struggled to regroup in the aftermath of the collapse.

“Move,” Flynn said. “They’ll be there a while.”

Viper nodded, and together they sprinted for the corridor exit, leaving their attackers trapped in the wreckage behind them.

61

Admiral Barrow studied the satellite readouts displayed across the main control screen. Green status indicators flashed steadily, their synchronized pulses a quiet reassurance that everything was moving precisely according to plan. He kept his face expressionless, though privately, he allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction. The pieces were nearly in place. The moment he’d worked toward for so long was finally within reach.

Behind him, footsteps approached. Barrow turned, immediately recognizing the tight, controlled gait of Gideon Mace. The man’s eyes burned with barely restrained fury.

“Report,” Barrow said calmly.

“We have intruders.”

Barrow scowled.

“Two men,” Mace said. “Got in through the old access hatch. It’s Viper. I think that CIA spook is with him, too.”

Barrow felt his face heat up. “James Flynn is alive?”

“They breached the lower tunnels,” Mace said. “My team engaged them, but they slipped past. They’re inside the facility. We are regrouping now.”

Barrow managed a nod. He watched Mace closely, recognizing the man’s intensity, the desire for immediate, decisive action. Mace was a weapon—a blunt, lethal instrument. Effective but single-minded. Men like him viewed every setback as a personal insult. Barrow understood the sentiment, though he didn’t share it. He saw the broader battlefield. One move didn’t determine victory or defeat. Patience did.

Mace stepped closer, his voice taut with contained violence. “Let me handle it personally, Admiral. I’ll hunt them down. No more mistakes.”

Barrow raised a hand, quiet authority stopping Mace cold. “No,” he said. “I have another idea.” He continued, more to himself than to anyone else. “They’re inside. That means they think they’ve won the first move. Let them. Men like Flynn and Viper need to believe they’re in control.”

He turned back to Mace. “Stand down for now. Maintain your position.”

Mace hesitated. “Sir⁠—”

“You have your orders,” Barrow said, voice flat.

Mace clenched his jaw but gave a single nod. “Understood.”

Barrow turned to the secure comm station at the far end of the console. His fingers hovered above the keypad. There were other pieces in play, ones Flynn wouldn’t expect, others he trusted.

Barrow entered a short sequence and opened a private channel. He didn’t smile. There was no satisfaction in being right. Victoria had failed—whether out of weakness or sentiment, he didn’t care. She’d said the job was done. He’d believed her.

That wouldn’t happen again.

Flynn was alive, inside the base, moving toward objectives he had no business touching. And Victoria would fix it—or she wouldn’t leave the mountain.

Barrow keyed the comm panel with steady fingers. One last chance, nothing more.

Flynn and Viper flowed through the passage, staying low and silent. Just ahead, the corridor opened into an intersection dimly illuminated by recessed ceiling lights. As they approached, a shadow shifted abruptly from behind a corner bulkhead.

Viper’s rifle snapped up toward the target.

“Wait!” Flynn said, placing a hand on Viper’s shoulder.

Victoria stepped into view. Her eyes were wide, tense—but steady. Flynn’s heart clenched, fighting off a sudden rush of emotion.

“Flynn,” Victoria said, her voice breaking.

Flynn watched her ease closer. Viper kept his weapon trained on her chest.

“I don’t blame you for doubting me,” she said. “You have every reason to. But I’m here to help you.”

Flynn hesitated, searching her face. His instincts told him to walk away, but his heart wanted desperately to trust her despite everything.

Victoria took another step forward. They were inches apart. “We can shut it all down,” she said. “There are over-ride codes. But we’ll need to take down the security system first. Once the internal defenses are shut down, we’ll have maybe ninety seconds before backup power can get them back online. We need to split up. It takes two of us to override the launch system.” She looked at Viper. “You can take out the defense network. Once it’s down, you’ll have an easier time getting to Barrow in the main control room.”

Flynn glanced at Viper, who shook his head. “We stick together,” Viper said.

“There’s no time,” she said. You’ll never reach the control room if the fort’s defenses remain active. There’s a separate security hub that handles automated turrets, surveillance cameras, and lockdown protocols. Someone has to disable it first, or you’ll never reach the command terminal.”

Flynn looked at Viper, saw the skepticism in the young soldier’s eyes. But Victoria’s logic was undeniable. If she was telling the truth, splitting up wasn’t just smart—it was necessary.

“We need Star Shield’s weapons offline,” Flynn said. “We won’t be able to make it to the backup control room if the turrets and cameras are active.”

Viper lowered his rifle with a grimace. “I’ll handle security,” he said. He fixed his gaze directly on Victoria. “But if you’re lying⁠—“

Victoria looked back at him but said nothing.

Flynn spoke into her ear. “You better be right about this.”

Victoria’s eyes flickered with pain—just for an instant—before steadying again. “Follow me.”

Flynn looked back once more at Viper, exchanging a quick nod of trust. Viper hesitated briefly, then turned sharply toward the corridor leading deeper into the facility. Flynn watched him disappear into the shadows.

“Let’s move,” Flynn said quietly, turning back to Victoria.

She nodded once and slipped by him down the corridor. Flynn followed—his heart hoping desperately that trusting her wasn’t about to cost them everything.

62

FORT ASCENDANT, COLORADO

Viper, on his own now, floated like a shadow through the service corridors—tight, metal-lined passageways that twisted around Fort Ascendant’s armored core. He kept his rifle high, corners cleared with practiced sweeps. Each step was deliberate. Each breath was measured.

He slid by two cameras without incident—both angled down, dark and lifeless. Minutes earlier, he’d looped their feeds with a palm-sized emitter slotted into a utility junction one level down. The signal was dirty, short-range, and timed to burn out fast—but it bought him a blind corridor. The base was built for surveillance, not subtlety. Barrow never expected someone like Viper to come back through the cracks.

Viper reached a junction, checked the map on his tablet, then turned left. Two guards stood at the end of the corridor, weapons slung, chatting quietly under a flickering LED panel.

He moved before they saw him. Three suppressed shots. One man dropped immediately. The second spun toward the noise, raising his weapon. Viper closed the distance, slammed him into the wall, and finished it with a blade—quick, clean, no wasted movement.

He kept going. Another flight of stairs then a locked bulkhead. He planted a shaped charge—barely audible pop—then slipped inside before the smoke cleared.

The Defense Hub was smaller than he expected—tight, modular consoles circling a central operations chair. Four techs. Two guards.

A narrow catwalk bordered the far edge of the chamber. Beyond it, a sheer drop disappeared into a vertical shaft—an old Cold War-era missile silo repurposed for cooling systems and data infrastructure. A low steel railing ran along the edge, more symbolic than useful. One misstep and he’d be gone.

Viper dropped one guard instantly. The second returned fire—wide and frantic. A stray round punched into a server stack, showering sparks. Viper slid across the floor, fired twice, then silence.

The techs slowly raised their hands. He didn’t even glance at them.

Stepping over cables and shattered equipment, Viper made his way toward the main terminal. Once he reached it, he hunched over the keyboard, his fingers flying across the keys. Lines of code scrolled. Systems blinked.

He found what he needed: Automated Defense Matrix – Standby / Engage / Override

He toggled it to “DISABLE.” The icon flashed red, then gray.

“Internal defenses offline,” he muttered. “You’re welcome, Flynn.”

Flynn followed two steps behind her. The hallway was narrow, cut through bedrock and reinforced with steel ribs. Emergency lights pulsed faintly above them, casting long shadows that moved with every step.

Victoria didn’t look back. She hadn’t said a word since they left the junction.

Flynn finally broke the silence. “You could’ve just shot me. Would’ve been faster.”

She stopped walking but didn’t turn. “I didn’t want to kill you. Just wanted to keep you out of the way.”

Flynn stepped up beside her. “Joke’s on you. I’m still here.”

She nearly smiled.

Flynn watched her for a second. No anger in his voice. “You looked me in the eye, sat next to me, and gave me bourbon laced with enough pills to stop my heart.”

“And then I cried as I watched you die,” she said.

He didn’t respond. There wasn’t much to say.

Victoria looked down the corridor then back at him. “I didn’t want to do it. But I knew you’d never back down. You’d keep pushing until someone pulled the trigger, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

“So you drugged me instead?”

She nodded once.

Flynn studied her. “Why not just tell me the truth?”

“Because you would’ve tried to stop us,” she said. “You think Admiral Barrow’s insane. But what if he’s just right? What if everything he’s building—this system, this control—what if it’s the only way to keep us from losing the next war before it even starts?”

“You sound like him,” Flynn said.

They stood there for a moment, the silence heavier than before.

Then she looked away. “The terminal’s this way.”

She started walking again. Flynn followed.

He didn’t trust her, not with his life, not with the mission, not even with the truth. But he wasn’t ready to give up on her either.

At least, not yet.

63

FORT ASCENDANT, COLORADO

The room dimmed slightly as the tactical map refreshed. A red icon blinked twice, then vanished from the perimeter of the internal defense grid.

Barrow stepped toward the console. His brow tightened, just barely.

Automated Defense Matrix: OFFLINE

Mace saw it even before Barrow reacted. He didn’t need confirmation. No one else would’ve made it that far without tripping every alarm. Turrets, drones, and sensors—all gone. Mace remained motionless. He’d disciplined himself this way.

Never betray your thoughts.

Barrow stepped back from the console and clasped his hands behind his back. He looked out through the glass wall at the snow-covered slope beyond. He didn’t look at Mace while speaking.

“It’s Viper,” Barrow said, confirming what Mace already knew.

Mace straightened slightly, saying nothing.

“He’s not just inside. He’s moving fast,” Barrow said. “He knows this layout. He’s thinking two steps ahead.”

Mace remembered the day Barrow picked Viper—fresh out of a DEVGRU rotation, lean and quiet, off some operation in Syria. Mace had been sure he, not Viper, was next in line. He had seniority, discipline, and a flawless record.

But Barrow had sought instinct and improvisation. He wanted a younger man. He wanted Viper.

Mace had always followed orders. He buried the slight, letting it rot in the center of his chest. Then Mace had told himself it didn’t matter. The mission came first. Barrow made the call. Mace followed orders.

A few months later, they were working the same op—covert extraction outside Mombasa. A contractor crew had gone dark, pinned by militia. Quick in-and-out, no contact with local forces.

But Viper had changed the plan mid-mission. Re-routed the team to avoid a kill zone Mace had already cleared.

They argued—quietly, efficiently—just the way seasoned operators do when there’s no time to hash things out. Mace disagreed with the call and said so. But when Viper gave the order, Mace obeyed—because that’s what he did.

The change cost them time. One hostage bled out before they reached the LZ. Viper had made peace with it. Called it an acceptable loss. Mace remembered the way he said it—no regret, just calm math, as if that made it clean.

And now here he was again—rewriting plans, undermining command, deciding which lives counted and which ones didn’t. Only this time, he wasn’t leading a team. He was trying to dismantle the entire mission.

He’d turned his back on order, on the chain of command, on the men he’d trained with and bled with. He’d turned his back on Mace, too.

And for what? To save a few civilians? To protect a broken system that couldn’t defend itself?

No, Mace wasn’t going to let this spiral any further.

Viper had made his choice. The teacher’s pet had come back—and he was sloppy, not to mention predictable and driven by guilt and ego in some twisted need to redeem himself. That made him weak.

Barrow turned and faced him. “Put an end to this.”

Mace met his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

He turned and walked out, his footsteps silent on the steel floor.

This wasn’t just cleanup.

This was a correction, a correction that was long overdue.

64

Viper stepped away from the terminal, checking his rifle’s magazine one last time. Behind him, the screens glowed dull red, confirming the internal security system was offline. He’d done his part. Now it was up to Flynn.

He turned toward the exit and froze.

Gideon Mace stood in the doorway, blocking it entirely. Arms loose at his sides, eyes locked onto Viper’s with detached appraisal.

“Looks like you drew the short straw,” Viper said.

Mace took a step forward, deliberately casual, sizing up the room. “I volunteered.”

“You never were very smart.”

“You could’ve stayed gone,” Mace said. “Just walked away, and let this play out.”

Viper shifted his stance, muscles relaxed but ready. “You never did question orders, did you, Mace? Point and shoot. Keep it simple.”

Mace gave a slight, dismissive tilt of his head. “It’s called loyalty.”

“Is that what it is?”

“Funny thing about loyalty,” Mace said. “You used to understand it. You commanded it. You even earned it. Barrow trusted you. They all trusted you.”

Viper smiled. “But you didn’t?”

The bigger man shrugged. “I did as I was told,” he said. “But I wasn’t surprised when I heard you turned your back on your duty. Let’s just say I saw it in you.”

“Barrow doesn’t trust anyone,” Viper said. “You think you’re different?”

“I know exactly what I am,” Mace said, his voice suddenly edged with quiet menace. “I’m what you couldn’t be. A soldier.”

“Predictable,” Viper said. “That’s exactly your problem.”

Mace took another step forward. “I spent years waiting for this moment. Ever since Barrow chose you over me. I knew you’d show who you really were eventually. Traitor.”

“Traitor?” Viper said, coldly amused. “You watched him turn good men into scapegoats. You watched him sell out soldiers just like you and me. You didn’t say a word. If anyone betrayed this uniform, it’s you.”

Mace’s jaw tightened. “Your morality isn’t going to save you, Viper.”

“Maybe not,” Viper said, slowly raising his rifle. “But it’ll make it a hell of a lot easier to pull the trigger.”

Mace mirrored him, raised his rifle. The two men stood, weapons raised, neither willing to fire first. The tension crackled in the silence.

Then, in one smooth motion, Mace lowered his rifle and drew a blade, steel gleaming harshly beneath the emergency lights. “This isn’t a bullet moment, Viper. You know it, and I know it.”

Viper didn’t flinch. He dropped his rifle and pulled his own blade, feeling the familiar weight of it. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

They moved toward each other slowly, deliberately, until only a few feet separated them.

“Last chance,” Mace said quietly. “Walk away.”

“You first,” Viper said.

They both lunged at once.

She stepped back, eyes clearing. “Head to the backup terminal two levels down. Physical kill switch. There’s only one problem; security is back online; Viper must have run into a problem. It’s going to be a bitch getting around this place.”

Flynn beamed. “Well, you’re lucky I’m not dead. Have I ever told you that I used to work for the CIA?”

“Does that line really work on women?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Listen to me,” she said. “When I watched you die, I felt something in me go with you. It sounds so obvious—so stupid to say now—but I knew. I knew what I’d done was wrong. Even though I believed I was protecting something bigger. Something that mattered more than either of us. I felt, I don’t know how to say it⁠—“

“Soulless,” Flynn said.

She looked up at him with clear recognition, like he’d read her mind.

Flynn remembered that same weight, a year ago in Australia. The body on the floor. The justification on his tongue. He told himself it was necessary. Strategic. Even noble. But the moment he decided his own judgment outranked the law, something slipped away, something he never got back.

Seeing that same understanding in her face made him feel closer to her than he’d ever felt to anyone.

“Yes.” The word was barely a whisper. She wrapped her arms around him, and he held her.

“I wanted to be the one person he didn’t cast aside,” she said. “He picked me. From flight school. From day one. I fought so hard, and to be recognized by an Admiral—I thought if I just kept proving myself, I’d matter.”

They moved fast through the corridor, Flynn taking point. He kept low, hugging the wall where the overhead cameras swept wide and lazy. Every corner was treated like a threat. He checked reflections in door glass before crossing, signaled when to stop, when to run.

Victoria kept up without a word.

They passed the officer barracks, empty at this hour except for a lone bunk light glowing behind frosted glass. Flynn paused there, grabbed a pistol and an ID badge. He checked the security panel across the hall. Motion sensors blinked in standby mode—low-level detection. Not ideal, but beatable.

He crouched and pulled a folded mylar sleeve from a supply bin, wrapped it around the stolen badge.

“This won’t fool a retina scan,” he said. “But it’ll spoof proximity sensors.”

He tossed it past the doorway. The sensor tripped, tracked the signal left. They went right. Three turns later, they reached a lit junction—four corridors feeding into a central square with an open stairwell in the middle.

Flynn stopped short and held up a fist. Victoria halted beside him. Footsteps. Two voices, heading down from above.

“Routine patrol,” Flynn whispered. “We wait until they clear ground level.”

“How do you know it’s a scheduled patrol and not special security looking for us?”

He pointed up. “Listen. Those boots are dragging. They’ve been on their feet too long. Special detail would hustle. Besides, these two are talking. If they were searching for something, they’d keep their mouths shut.”

Sure enough, two soldiers passed into the corridor across from them, speaking in clipped tones. The moment they disappeared through the far exit, Flynn moved again.

They crossed the stairwell fast and ducked into the mechanical maintenance hallway—less lighting, fewer cameras. Fluorescent bulbs buzzed behind dusty covers. Wires ran overhead like tangled arteries. Flynn knew these kinds of places—less design, more necessity. The stuff that kept the rest of the fortress standing.

“This place is huge,” he said. “Barrow didn’t just build a bunker. He built a monument.”

“It was always about legacy,” Victoria said. “Even before the satellites.”

At the next junction, Flynn stopped again. He crouched, tested the grate. “Could crawl it. Might bypass the next sensor cluster.”

Victoria peered past him. “Looks like it goes dark halfway through.”

He studied the width, the angle, the mess of cabling. “Too slow. Too risky.”

He stood. “Come on. We’ll do it the loud way.”

They followed the hallway east until they hit a security checkpoint—camera clusters overhead, motion sensors tracking every step past a certain threshold.

Victoria stopped just short. “Infrared and motion-linked. No way through without tripping the system.”

Flynn moved past her, popped open a maintenance panel on the wall, and found the fire suppression junction. He traced the wires with his finger, then pulled out the small blade from the guard’s belt pouch and began stripping insulation.

“We’re setting off the fire alarm now?” she asked.

“We’re setting off a fire alarm,” Flynn said. “Localized. Two corridors down. Just enough to pull eyes off this hallway.”

Flynn twisted the wires together. Seconds later, a low-pitched siren echoed in the distance. Red lights spun to life in the hall across from them. The cameras above shifted position, realigning toward emergency egress zones.

“Thirty seconds,” Flynn said. “Move.”

They went, no hesitation now. Past the checkpoint, down a narrow access hall, then up one flight to a thick steel door with no signage and a dead terminal beside it—no wireless, no remote uplink. Just an old-school badge reader and biometric palm panel.

Flynn reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol he’d lifted earlier from an ASP soldier.

“You’re going to shoot the security panel?” she asked. “That’s not going to work.”

Flynn pried the optic plate loose and extracted the biometric chip from the grip.

“These sidearms double as ID tokens if you know where to look,” he said. “The chip updates every time the gun clears a secure zone.”

He slotted the chip into the terminal’s side port.

“Security’s tight,” Flynn says. “But it was built by people who assumed no one would be dumb enough to cannibalize their own weapons.”

A second later, the panel blinked green.

He turned to Victoria and winked.

The chamber was colder than the corridor behind them. Flynn noticed the hum of the terminal before he saw the screen. Blue light pulsed from the center of the room, casting long, pale shadows along the floor. Everything in the space felt clean, clinical, and untouched.

Victoria stepped in first. Her shoulders stayed squared, her walk steady. Flynn followed, his eyes already on the terminal. His mind was on the codes, on the launch, on the seconds slipping through their fingers.

“This is it?” he asked.

She didn’t move.

Flynn noticed the way her eyes lingered on the screen. She was looking past it, not at the numbers, not at the system. Behind him, a sound echoed in the corridor—the heavy rhythm of multiple bodies moving in sync. Flynn turned to see, but he already knew.

Four ASP soldiers entered the chamber. Rifles at low ready, eyes straight ahead.

He looked at Victoria. She turned her head away from him. Then he took a breath. It caught somewhere in his chest.

Damn you, Flynn, you idiot.

She didn’t look him in the eye.

“You brought me here to separate me from Viper,” he said. “What did you steer him toward?”

Her voice was quiet. “They promised not to hurt you. Barrow just wants you out of the way.”

He waited for her to look at him, but she wouldn’t.

“I trusted you,” he said.

“I didn’t ask you to,” she said.

The soldiers stepped in closer. One of them took hold of Flynn’s arm. He didn’t resist. His focus stayed on her.

“I don’t know what I feel for you right now,” he said. “But I know I’ve never felt this foolish.”

She finally looked up. Her expression cracked. Not much, but enough. Her hands were clenched at her sides.

“I didn’t want it to go this far. I thought if I could just keep you away, everything else would hold together. But it kept breaking, and I kept covering it, and now I don’t know where I am in any of it.”

Flynn’s heart pounded. Not from fear, but from something heavier. “You sat next to me while I was dying. You watched, maybe even cried. And now you’re turning me over to the same man who ordered it. What? One time wasn’t enough for you?”

“He believes we’re saving the country.”

“And you?”

She didn’t answer.

The soldier took Flynn’s sidearm and stepped back. The other pulled him toward the exit. As they reached the door, he looked over his shoulder one last time. Victoria hadn’t moved.

He kept looking at her, waiting for something to change. Her eyes, her voice, her choice.

But she turned away.

65

FORT ASCENDANT, COLORADO

Blades flashed. Viper struck first, a quick jab toward the ribs. Mace caught his arm and twisted, trying to drive him into the wall. Viper rolled out and slashed across Mace’s vest, cutting straps but not skin.

“Still sloppy,” Mace said. “Some things don’t change.”

“You mean like your choking under pressure?”

Mace drove a knee into Viper’s thigh and slammed him against the bulkhead. Viper dropped low, cut behind Mace’s leg, and knocked him off balance.

Both men reset. They circled once more.

“You think Barrow ever trusted you?” Viper asked. “You were a blunt object. Nothing more.”

Mace lunged. “He didn’t need to trust me. He needed results.”

Their knives met with a hard crack. Mace landed a punch to Viper’s ribs. Viper answered with an elbow to the jaw. Blood hit the floor. Neither of them looked at it.

Mace moved again, blade high. Viper blocked with his forearm. The knife sliced through skin, shallow but clean. Viper gritted his teeth and shoved Mace back.

They crashed into a console near the edge of the chasm that had been dug decades ago to house missiles to launch at the Soviets. One foot slipped close to the catwalk. The open shaft yawned beside them, a black void cut into the mountain. Neither man looked, but both knew it was there.

Mace swung and missed, Viper staying light on his feet. Another haymaker from Mace sailed wide, missing the mark. Then Mace charged, tackled Viper into a server rack. Steel bent. Sparks flew.

The knives hit the ground. Now it was fists.

Mace threw a hook that caught Viper behind the ear. Viper grabbed the collar of Mace’s vest and pulled him forward, slamming his forehead into Mace’s nose. Cartilage snapped. Mace staggered, then laughed.

“You hit like an officer,” Mace said.

“Just giving orders, Sergeant,” Viper replied.

He drove Mace into the floor. Mace rolled and reversed position, pinning Viper’s shoulders. His hands wrapped around Viper’s throat.

Viper clawed for leverage, found a broken bracket, and drove it into Mace’s side. Mace didn’t scream. He threw a punch into Viper’s face and shoved off. Both men rose, bloody and shaking.

Still not done.

They hit again, shoulder to shoulder. No clean form. No distance. Just weight and pain. Mace slammed Viper into the wall and threw wild punches into his ribs. Viper dropped his center of gravity, twisted his hips, and broke free with an uppercut that lifted Mace off his heels. Mace spit blood onto the floor.

“You’ve been holding that one a while,” Mace said.

“Not that long—only five years,” Viper answered.

They circled each other again, both men breathing heavy while watching hands and feet.

Mace stepped left, feigned right, then drove in. Viper took the first hit to the gut but caught Mace with a knee to the sternum. Mace staggered, off balance for half a second.

Viper didn’t wait. He grabbed Mace by the vest, dragged him into a metal column, and slammed his face against the edge. Mace dropped to a knee, reached behind him, and pulled a short pry bar from his belt.

“So much for a fair fight,” Viper said.

Mace swung. Viper ducked the first pass, caught the second with his forearm, and wrapped his arm around Mace’s wrist. They struggled over the makeshift weapon. It dropped between them.

Mace landed a headbutt. Viper threw an elbow. Then both men fell.

They rolled across the grated floor, fists slamming into anything they could reach. Mace got on top again and drove his forearm across Viper’s throat.

“You think this changes anything?” Mace asked. “You break the system, and then what? You think they hand you a medal?”

Viper’s fingers scraped along the floor until they closed on the discarded knife. “I don’t want a medal.”

He stabbed upward—not to kill, but to wound. The blade drove into Mace’s side, just under the vest line.

Mace dropped back with a snarl and grabbed the wound. Blood poured between his fingers.

Viper stood slowly.

Mace stayed on his knees, one hand pressed to his side, the other gripping the edge of the console to stay upright.

Viper didn’t move in for the kill. “You’re done.”

“Not yet,” Mace growled.

The fight shifted closer to the edge. With steel underfoot and empty space behind, the shaft waited just beyond the catwalk, wide enough to swallow both without a sound. One wrong step would end it without ceremony.

Mace rose again, blood pouring from his side, eyes locked on Viper. He staggered forward and swung. Viper blocked, countered, and landed a punch that snapped Mace’s head back.

They kept trading. One hit. Another. No defense, just damage.

Just behind them, the shaft waited—open and silent. The railing stood bent from the earlier impact, no longer enough to stop a fall. One push would be all it took.

Mace’s knees buckled, but he stayed on his feet. He reached for his sidearm.

Viper didn’t hesitate. He snapped his arm forward and threw the blade. The knife buried itself in Mace’s throat with a solid, wet crack.

Mace dropped the pistol. His hands went to his neck. Blood pulsed between his fingers. He looked up, unfocused, jaw working without sound.

He took one step forward. Then another. His hand reached for Viper.

Viper stepped back—but not far enough.

Mace grabbed a fistful of his vest and pulled.

Both men went over the rail and into the dark below.

66

FORT ASCENDANT, COLORADO

Barrow was already in the command center when Victoria arrived. A few officers were at their stations. No one spoke unless prompted. The uplink terminal scrolled quietly through satellite acquisition data. The countdown was down to six hours until Star Shield could be unleashed.

“You’ve had a difficult few hours,” he said.

Victoria stayed silent.

“I gave you one task,” Barrow continued. “Ensure Flynn didn’t become a threat.”

“I thought he was out of play.”

“You thought wrong.”

She kept her tone even. “You still have control. The system’s intact.”

Barrow turned to face her. “Control isn’t enough. I’ve worked too long for this to depend on luck and cleanup teams.”

She nodded.

He studied her. “You’re not as steady as you used to be.”

“I’m fine.”

Barrow walked to the window—no view, just reinforced panels facing the mountain. “The mission is all that matters. You know that.”

She said nothing.

A Marine staff sergeant stepped in from the east corridor. His face was stone.m”Sir, a report just came in from the sweep team. Gunnery Sergeant Mace is down. The intruder as well.”

Barrow didn’t turn. “Identified?”

“Yes, sir. It was Viper. Both men went over the rail into the silo. Presumed KIA.”

Victoria froze. Barrow’s eyes stayed on the main display.

The staff sergeant waited. Barrow didn’t acknowledge him again. The man nodded once and left.

Victoria stepped forward. “You said Mace was the best you had,” she said.

“He was.”

“And Viper⁠—”

“An excellent tactician with questionable loyalty,” Barrow said with barely a hint of emotion. “Both men suffered from unnecessarily large egos. Now they’re both gone.”

She didn’t move. “That’s all you have to say?”

Barrow finally turned. His expression didn’t shift. “They failed. And they paid the price. We move on.”

“You told me once Viper was like a son,” she said.

He looked at her for a long moment.

“I don’t have sons,” he said. “I have assets. When one breaks, I replace it.”

She felt her stomach twist.

Barrow had lost his best two soldiers. And he didn’t flinch.

Something inside her did.

67

FORT ASCENDANT, COLORADO

Red icons flickered to life on the main display—clusters of thermal signatures moving fast over the western ridge line. Helicopters. Multiple formations. Low altitude. Tight spacing. Military.

Someone in the pit called it out. “Contacts approaching grid Bravo-Two. Insertion pattern confirmed—rotary wing.”

Victoria said nothing. She didn’t need to. Everyone in the room knew what they were seeing.

Barrow stood behind the primary console, silent for a long moment. He watched the screen without blinking. When he finally spoke, his voice was even.

“Maddox.”

Barrow stepped forward, hands still clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. Another operator shouted something about additional movement near the eastern pass—secondary insertion.

A chill threaded through her. General Maddox. If he was sending troops to Fort Ascendant, it wasn’t a raid—it was a reckoning. And that meant Washington wasn’t behind Barrow. The United States military wasn’t coming to assist. It was coming to shut them down.

She said nothing, but the realization tightened in her chest: her own government had declared Admiral Barrow the enemy. And she was on the wrong side of the glass.

Barrow, though, looked calm. Steady. Almost pleased.

“Scramble intercept teams,” he said. “Seal the outer tunnels and the east approach. Let them work for it.”

He turned slightly, just enough that Victoria caught the edge of a smile that wasn’t meant for her.

“You know who needs to see this?” he said. “James Flynn.”

Flynn was escorted in by two ASP guards—unarmed, but not relaxed. They brought him forward and peeled off without a word. Barrow stood at the central console, hands behind his back, flanked by technicians working in clipped, efficient silence.

Above them, the tactical display lit the room with pulsing red and blue. Maddox’s forces were swarming the ridge line. Helicopter markers in tight formations. Vehicle columns moving toward the east access road.

Barrow didn’t turn. “You’re just in time.”

Flynn said nothing.

On the screen, a technician marked the outer perimeter. “Multiple contact points confirmed. Seventy-three active units. Estimated breach in six minutes.”

Barrow’s voice was calm, almost sincere. “I’m sorry, old friend.”

He gave a short nod to the operator nearest the auxiliary panel. “EMP net. Now.”

The tech didn’t hesitate. Somewhere outside, something fired—silent, invisible.

On the screen, half the helicopter icons froze. Then vanished. The rest spiraled, spinning wildly before dropping off the grid. Ground columns blinked red. Radio signals flatlined. Target feeds stuttered, then went black.

Flynn stepped forward, stunned.

Barrow turned to face him. There was no anger in his face. Nor triumph. Just affirmation.

“Electromagnetic pulse, Flynn said. “You just knocked out an entire assault force.”

“Correct,” Barrow said. “No engines. No comms. No optics. No coordination.”

He gestured at the screen. “Every helicopter lost power in mid-air. Every armored vehicle is dead on the road. EMP doesn’t care how advanced your gear is. If it runs on electricity, it’s finished.”

Flynn turned to the main feed. The assault had been silenced without a shot.

“You still don’t understand what we’ve built here,” he said. “This is not a base. It’s a failsafe. And now it’s operational.”

Victoria stood near the far wall, silent. She didn’t look at Flynn. She didn’t look at anyone.

Barrow returned his attention to the screen. “Prepare missile lock sequence. Targets Echo-One through Echo-Seven.”

A second tech began inputting coordinates.

Flynn stepped forward. “You’re out of your mind.”

Barrow didn’t blink. “This is deterrence, Mr. Flynn. The kind that works. Let me show you what else it does.”

Victoria hadn’t spoken. Flynn finally looked at her, searching her face for something—anything.

She didn’t meet his eyes.

Barrow turned slightly toward her. “Commander Sloane, confirm biometric key authority. Left station.”

She stepped forward like she was sleepwalking.

Flynn took a half-step toward her. “Don’t.”

Barrow didn’t even look his way. “It’s not treason when it prevents a second Pearl Harbor.”

Victoria placed her palm on the scanner. It beeped.

“Biometric authorization confirmed,” said the tech.

The key slot ejected from the right-side panel.

Barrow moved to it.

“You can’t win this,” Flynn said.

Barrow turned the key halfway. A second confirmation prompt lit up. It was waiting.

“History isn’t about winning,” Barrow said. “It’s about shaping what people remember.”

The screen displayed a final prompt:

Secondary Authorization Required

Barrow placed his hand on his own scanner. A key ejected in front of Victoria. Her hand hovered near it, but she froze.

Barrow’s voice dropped. “Commander, turn your key.”

Flynn stepped closer to her. He whispered, “Don’t do this.”

She hesitated only a second longer. Then she turned the key.

The console beeped once—then again. The screen shifted. Target paths bloomed across the display.

Launch Confirmed

Flynn stepped forward. “What did you just do?”

Barrow didn’t bother to face Flynn. “She saved a nation, Mr. Flynn,” he beamed.

A synthetic voice echoed through the room: “Strategic deployment in progress. Orbital interface aligning. Launch in T-minus thirty seconds.”

Flynn stared at Victoria. She gave him nothing.

Above them, the main display lit with missile trajectories—seven lines curling east across the globe, all striking targets in Russia. Cities were not labeled on the map, but Flynn recognized them as high-value military targets.

This was real, and the missiles would be airborne in seconds.

An alarm blared—louder, different.

ALERT: Unauthorized personnel inside base perimeter

A tech shouted, panicked. “They’ve breached corridor one!”

Another alert:

Multiple fireteams engaged near the east access point. System override failure—defense grid disabled

Barrow’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t move. Flynn knew of Maddox, who had a reputation as a brilliant tactician. He’d launched his attack in two waves. The EMP strike was effective on the first, but the second wave approached from the rear, and the EMP didn’t have time to reset and acquire targets.

“So they came,” Barrow said. “Let them.”

The admiral ordered another EMP strike. The second wave was halted, but several Joint Light Tactical Vehicles (JLTVs) had reached the gate, and elite United States soldiers flooded the interior of Fort Ascended.

Gunfire echoed from somewhere deep in the base.

One of the guards at the rear door moved to cover the entrance but was too slow.

The door crashed open and an armed man, beaten and bloodied, burst into the control room. It was Viper, moving low and fast, blood streaked down his arm. He raised his .45 and dropped two ASP operators before they could react.

Smoke poured into the room behind him. Screams followed. Chaos.

Flynn ducked behind the console as bullets tore through the upper wall panels. A monitor exploded above his head.

Viper took cover near the secondary console and shouted, “We’re too late!”

68

FORT ASCENDANT, COLORADO

Flynn shuddered as the room rocked with distant explosions. The ceiling tiles shook. Red warning lights pulsed in rhythm with the base-wide alarm. On the screen, the incoming warheads kept ticking closer. The intercept grid was still online—but not for long.

Barrow bolted toward the main control panel, his eyes were wide with shock. ASP might be able to hold off the initial wave of Maddox’s Special Forces, but more would come. Barrow was watching his dream crumble before his eyes. Flynn heard his grandfather’s words: There’s nothing more dangerous than a man who’s run out of options.

Barrow typed furiously at the console. Within seconds a smattering of new missile arcs appeared on the display.

Barrow had launched more missiles, aimed at Russia, China, and the Middle East. There were probably thirty of them, already airborne. Barrow plucked a rifle from the body of a wounded ASP soldier and began to smash the console with the butt of the weapon, causing a flash of light and sparks. The console erupted in smoke. Barrow smiled.

Flynn was already on the move but he was too late. The console erupted in smoke. The large display above them went blank. The console was dead—screens blank, panels cracked. The input systems were gone.

Barrow turned toward him, his mouth bloody. He raised his rifle toward Flynn.

“History will remember me as the man who saved America,” Barrow said. “You will be forgotten, James Flynn.”

Flynn heard two shots.

Barrow’s face went sullen. He slumped to the floor with two holes in his chest.

Flynn turned. Viper was there, his rifle still aimed at Barrow.

“Glad you’re still with us,” Flynn said.

Viper gave a pained thumbs-up. Now that he was closer, Flynn could see that Viper was badly wounded.

The large display flickered for a moment, showing the paths of the outgoing missiles. Millions of people were going to die in minutes. The world was on the brink of another global conflict.

Flynn stood over the ruined console, breathing hard amidst the smoke and sound of distant gunfire. “The secondary control room,” he said. He faced Victoria. “Can I stop it?”

“You’ll need help,” she said.

“Not yours,” he snapped. “Viper, let’s go shut down some missiles.”

The younger man nodded, although his body was looking ragged, and Flynn wasn’t sure if he was up to it.

“I’m the only one who knows the system,” Victoria said. “Like it or not, you need me.”

Flynn huffed.

Victoria added, “And I need this. Please.”

As much as he hated to admit it, Flynn knew she was right. He had lost his faith in Victoria, but he’d have to trust her one last time.

69

FORT ASCENDANT, COLORADO

They moved fast through flickering corridors, past overturned equipment and bodies. The base was a war zone. Gunfire echoed from intersecting hallways. Explosions punched through the steel walls.

Flynn led, Viper covered the rear, Victoria stayed between them—eyes sharp, movements practiced.

A trio of ASP troops turned a corner ahead.

Viper dropped two of them with quick shots. Flynn shot a third one, aiming low and striking the man in the leg. Victoria kicked the rifle from the soldier’s hands before he could recover.

They kept moving.

Hallways buckled under the weight of the battle. Smoke filled the ventilation system. A fire suppression unit hissed to life and sprayed foam across a corridor filled with shell casings.

Flynn shoved through it, coughing and shielding his face from the smoke.

Just beyond the corner, flashes of light strobed against the corridor walls. Shouts. Boots. Muzzle bursts. Two squads—ASP and Maddox’s men—were trading fire in a choke point near the main junction.

The corridor Flynn and company needed was just beyond them.

“We’re not getting through that,” Viper said, peeking around the corner. He ducked back as bullets cracked into the wall.

“This is the fastest route,” Flynn said, checking the countdown timer on his watch. “We have maybe five minutes to stop those birds.”

Victoria looked past him, then turned back, calculating.

“There’s a bypass,” she said. “Maintenance crawlspace. It links to the coolant trench under Subsection D. It’ll come out one level below the control room.”

“How long?” Flynn asked.

She didn’t answer.

“How long, Victoria?”

“Six minutes. Maybe seven.”

Too long

Flynn looked back toward the gunfight. A body hit the floor hard, just visible around the edge of the wall.

No way through.

He nodded. “We need to make up time. Move. Fast.”

They ran.

The maintenance access duct was tight, but they were able to scurry through it quickly.

Flynn checked his watch: two minutes.

They reached the northern bulkhead.

A final staircase—down into darkness. Emergency lights blinked dim red every few feet. No voices. No gunfire.

They descended quickly.

They had reached the room faster than Victoria predicted, but they were running out of seconds.

At the bottom of the stairs, a reinforced door waited. Victoria moved ahead and keyed in a six-digit code with shaking hands.

The door unlocked with a dull click.

Flynn pushed it open and stepped into the backup terminal room—no windows, no airflow, just rows of dusty equipment lit by a single overhead fixture. In the center, the manual kill switch interface stood mounted to a reinforced server rack, its panel recessed into a secured casing. The rest of the room hummed with low power, barely alive.

Flynn crossed to the terminal, tugged off the cover, and looked at the status screen.

Offline

“Not good,” he said.

Victoria stepped in beside him. She saw the screen and cursed under her breath.

He ran through the diagnostics—no uplink, no command input. Power was still routed, but control systems had been scrubbed. The switch itself had been remotely bypassed.

“Failsafe was pulled,” he said. “They killed their own kill switch.”

Victoria nodded, jaw tight. “Barrow must’ve anticipated this. Took it offline in case someone on the inside tried to use it. I can get in.”

She typed her login.

Access Level: Sloane, V. – Authorized

Flynn dropped into the chair and scanned the options. ABORT was locked out. REMOTE DESTRUCT was offline. But buried in the secondary menu was something else—a simulation override, used for orbital targeting drills.

He clicked it open. A warning flashed:

FOR SYSTEM TESTING ONLY – NO LIVE WARHEAD PERMISSION.

That was the point.

“If I can’t stop them,” he muttered, “Maybe I can convince them they’re not real.”

He typed in a fake launch authorization—dummy call sign, fake mission ID—then rerouted the active missile telemetry into the simulation pipeline. The system would interpret the warheads as test dummies and initiate the standard test protocol: automated disarm, decouple, and discard.

He hit EXECUTE.

The screen flashed:

SIMULATION CONFIRMED. LIVE PAYLOADS FLAGGED AS TEST OBJECTS.

Separation Initiated

Flynn sat frozen, watching as the system dumped real nuclear warheads into the void—treating them like training rounds. No targets. No impact.

Just gone.

Viper leaned against the wall, bleeding from the arm, rifle lowered. “Tell me that was it.”

Flynn turned to him, stunned and grinning.

“That was it.”

A beat passed.

Then the alarm changed pitch.

Flynn looked at the screen:

INBOUND TARGETS. WESTWARD ARC. IMPACT IN TWELVE MINUTES.

“What’s happening?” Viper said.

Victoria looked at Flynn, her skin pale. Her lips moved.

“They fired back.”

70

FORT ASCENDANT, COLORADO

Flynn sat alone at the console, breath shallow, fingers tight on the controls.

There was a sick kind of irony in this. All this time, he’d wanted to expose Star Shield—cripple it, drag it into the daylight, dismantle it piece by piece. Now it was the only thing between the world and seven Russian warheads.

He pulled up the control interface. The orbital intercept array was still live—barely. The targeting interface was crude, burned out by Barrow’s overrides. No automation. No predictive locks. Just raw data and a blank firing queue.

If he wanted to stop what was coming, he’d have to do it manually.

Flynn exhaled.

He selected the first satellite. Then the next.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Let this thing be what they said it was. Just this once.”

He brought up the trajectory arcs. The Russian missiles were already in midcourse, screaming toward U.S. soil. No margin. No backup.

He began to target them—one at a time.

01:57 Remaining until impact

He pulled up the orbital control map. A blue hemisphere spun in a wireframe, dotted with incoming red arcs. Each one curved high and fast, already in midcourse. Too high for fighter intercepts. Too fast for anything Earth-based.

Only one thing could reach them in time.

He selected the first kill-sat.

A shaky green icon lit up.

He scrolled to the nearest inbound trajectory. The targeting matrix stuttered. No predictive algorithm. He’d have to guess their vectors.

Flynn slid the crosshairs into place.

“Come on. Be right.”

He fired.

Nothing.

Then—on the far edge of the globe—a flicker. A red icon vanished. Confirmed kill.

01:32

Flynn swore and jumped to the next satellite. Selected. Targeted. Fired.

Too early. The warhead flared but kept coming.

01:20

Third satellite. New approach vector. He tweaked the angle—waited.

“Now.”

Fired.

Another flash. Another vanished arc.

He wiped sweat from his brow, eyes locked on the screen.

Five were left.

01:04

Flynn moved faster now. No time to check. Just instinct and geometry.

Fourth—hit. Fifth—miss.

The screen shook slightly. Something detonated too close to atmosphere. He didn’t know if it was a warhead or debris.

00:47

Sixth and seventh were converging. He had one more shot. Maybe two.

He launched both remaining interceptors in rapid succession, one ahead of the curve, one trailing behind.

0:29

He stood, watching.

Two red icons flared out. Gone.

One remained.

It screamed in on a broken arc, wobbling slightly—too fast, too low.

Flynn leaned over the console and scanned for anything—one last node, one last trigger. The screen was empty.

00:11

Nothing left.

He looked down at the console, then back at the map.

The last missile passed the orbital kill line.

00:06

He whispered, barely audible.

“Break up. Please.”

The red icon flickered—then shattered.

The screen read:

INBOUND THREAT – LOST CONTACT: IMPACT CONFIRMED: OCEAN STRIKE – BERING SEA

NO GROUND CASUALTIES

It was over.

71

FORT ASCENDANT, COLORADO

The base was broken.

Smoke drifted through the halls. Lights flickered in irregular pulses. The sounds of gunfire had stopped, replaced by orders barked over radios, boots echoing down the metal walkways, and the low hum of generators rebooting.

Flynn stepped out of the backup control room. Viper followed behind, limping, rifle lowered

Maddox’s troops were everywhere now—sweeping the corridors, stacking ASP weapons, zip-tying prisoners. The fight was over. Fort Ascendant had fallen.

At the intersection ahead, two MPs stood beside a field medic crouched over someone seated against the wall. Flynn moved closer and saw her.

Victoria.

She sat upright, back to the wall, hands resting on her knees.

She looked up as Flynn approached.

The MPs hadn’t cuffed her. They didn’t need to. She wasn’t going anywhere.

She spoke first. “Did it work?”

He nodded.

She looked down at her hands. “Good.”

Footsteps approached behind him—General Maddox flanked by two soldiers in full combat gear. Smoke clung to his uniform. His eyes swept the scene in one hard motion: the sparking panels, Barrow slumped against the far wall, Victoria seated against the console, bleeding and still. Then he locked eyes with Flynn.

“You did this?”

“I stopped it,” Flynn said.

Maddox glanced at the screen. No more warheads. No more countdown.

He looked back at Flynn, gave the smallest possible nod—barely more than a shift of his chin.

“Good.”

He moved past Flynn toward the console, barking orders to his men. Then he approached Victoria.

“Commander Sloane,” Maddox said.

She met his eyes. “Sir.”

He nodded to the MPs.

Victoria pushed herself up with effort. No resistance. No protest. She stood on her own.

Flynn didn’t move.

She gave him one last look. She wasn’t asking for anything. She knew the score.

For once, Flynn didn’t have words for her. So, he just let the MPs guide her away in silence.

No, he was saving his words. After all, he still had one helluva story to write.

THE END

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to so many people who have helped with the creation of this project and the entire James Flynn series.

I would also like to thank my advance reader team for all their input in improving this book along with all the other readers who have enthusiastically embraced the story of James Flynn. Stay tuned ... there's more James Flynn adventures coming soon.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

R.J. PATTERSON is an award-winning writer living in southeastern Idaho. He first began his illustrious writing career as a sports journalist, recording his exploits on the soccer fields in England as a young boy. Then when his father told him that people would pay him to watch sports if he would write about what he saw, he went all in. He landed his first writing job at age 15 as a sports writer for a daily newspaper in Orangeburg, S.C. He later attended earned a degree in newspaper journalism from the University of Georgia, where he took a job covering high school sports for the award-winning Athens Banner-Herald and Daily News.

He later became the sports editor of The Valdosta Daily Times before working in the magazine world as an editor and freelance journalist. He has won numerous writing awards, including a national award for his investigative reporting on a sordid tale surrounding an NCAA investigation over the University of Georgia football program.

R.J. enjoys the great outdoors of the Northwest while living there with his wife and four children. He still follows sports closely.

He also loves connecting with readers and would love to hear from you. To stay updated about future projects, connect with him on Facebook or on the interwebs at RJPbooks.com and sign up for his newsletter to get deals and updates.

J.D. KANE, in another life, was an award-winning sports writer and columnist who covered high school, college, and professional sports for daily newspapers in Ohio, Indiana, Georgia, and Florida. He has since left newspapers behind (And who hasn't?) to pursue other opportunities in digital marketing and SEO content strategy while honing his craft as a writer of crime and thriller fiction. A Gen-X musician, Kane loves all things rock guitar and is an unapologetic fan of classic rock and "Hair Metal." He lives with his lovely wife and children in Northeast Ohio, where he can be found cheering for his beloved Cleveland sports teams; "Next year is always our year!"

Connect with J.D. at his website, www.JDKanebooks.com.

Lunar Deception

© Copyright 2025 R.J. Patterson & J.D. Kane

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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