Jen’s adrenaline rises as they stare in her direction. A decade’s worth of training kicks in. Don’t shrink, she tells herself. She keeps her chest high, like her chin. She doesn’t adjust her garment, a sign that she could have a weapon. When she glances at the stormtroopers, it’s slow. Curious. The type of look that says: What could possibly be the problem, officer?

  They don’t meet her eyes, though. They’re looking through her.

  She glances over her shoulder and finds the two young families in line behind her. The men and their wives are trembling. Like Jen, they avoid staring at the stormtroopers, but their postures aren’t confident. It’s inviting more scrutiny, but she can’t warn them.

  A screening officer waves Jen forward. She sizes him up with the same confidence. Fiftyish. Bald, with a few straggling hairs atop his head. Three minutes ago, his green eyes were placid. Bored. Now he’s keyed up. Impatient.

  An ideal mark.

  Give him what he wants, Jen thinks. She pulls down her face mask before he asks. Hands him the passport, along with her cellphone. She doesn’t want to give him a reason to hold up her processing. “Zdravstvuyte, ser.”

  “Zdravstvuyte.” The officer scans her passport booklet. Returns it before the light flashes green. He cross-checks it against her ticket. Returns her phone with total indifference. He nods her through and doesn’t bother with well-wishes. Given Jen’s limited Russian speaking abilities, she returns the favor.

  Jen stuffs her cell and passport into her bag and dumps it on the security belt. The guy manning the X-ray machine glances at the screen, then the line, then the screen. He’s rushing and expecting trouble. She’s close enough to the machine to hear the motor whir as it picks up speed.

  She enters the line for the metal detector. The screening officer is rushing, like the others. He waves, letting a young boy pass. His mother follows. Neither activates the alarm. And it’s Jen’s turn. She catches a nod. Notices her duffel bag as it spits out of the X-ray machine. She steps through. Prays for silence, and she gets it. She is tearing her bag off the belt when she hears the first shout.

  Jen turns as a stormtrooper tackles one of the young men. The stormtrooper is a boy because the man he replaced is on the front lines or in a hospital. Or what would have been a pine box had the demand not skyrocketed and forced the state to settle for plywood. More stormtroopers dive in and secure the second man as their wives and children scream.

  It’s the law of the jungle.

  The young family is fighting for survival. The stormtroopers are doing the same; their job is to fill the trenches that stretch across the front line. If they fail, their bodies will work just as well.

  It’s a wrenching scene, and Jen can’t stand to watch it. She rushes to her gate, with cries echoing through the terminal.

  What she just witnessed is the antithesis of liberty. When the war in Ukraine kicked off, this scene wouldn’t have entered the minds of the Russian people. Now, authorities are tearing their families apart. They’re not alone. Ukrainian authorities are doing the same. And Jen isn’t naïve. One wrong turn, and a draft lottery like Richard Nixon’s will be on the six o’clock news.

  She counts the gates as she rushes through the terminal. Passes the Flight Status screen and checks her flight information. She can’t read the Cyrillic letters, but the number is green. She pushes.

  Fifty yards later, she’s at her gate. The jet is standing by. The jet bridge is in place, its door open. A gate agent is already checking tickets. Jen enters the line. Senses the passengers’ collective relief as they board their flight out of Russia. She’d be a liar if she said she didn’t feel it too.

  Thirty-Two

  Washington Dulles International Airport, Virginia

  Final approach.

  The Gulfstream drops toward Runway 12/30, which traverses the airport from west to east, with several degrees of slant toward the south. The landing gear scrapes the asphalt. White smoke bursts from the rubber. Inside the Bombardier, the cabin hardly rocks or vibrates. Luxury without compromise.

  The pilots reverse thrust, rapidly slowing the craft, and proceed toward the hangars on Golf Road, one of which belongs to the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Martinez sits on the port side of the craft and observes the airport through the open cabin window. When she left Ukraine, it was five in the morning. She crossed multiple time zones to arrive in Washington at seven in the morning to catch the sunrise. It’s a magnificent spring morning. The sun is bright, glowing, giving her a picturesque view of the airport’s white, swooping rooftop.

  The jet is approaching the hangar at an offset angle. She recognizes it because she’s been inside a hundred times before. The doors are open, but all she can see is a yawning gap. When she notices a black helicopter on a nearby helipad, her pulse flutters.

  Martinez nods to Sloane, who sits in a seat across from her. “Check the helipad.”

  Sloane leans forward. Peeks out of her cabin window. “Looks like you called it.”

  Martinez nods. Takes a deep breath. “I’ll be back at Langley within the hour for a debrief.”

  “You won’t be traveling solo,” Sloane says. “Director Thompson will keep you company on the flight.”

  Martinez gets her first straight-shot view in the hangar, a second after Sloane. Half-a-dozen black Suburbans are waiting inside. Men in sharp suits crowd around them, including Woody Thompson. It takes effort to stop her mouth from falling open. Men like Thompson don’t wait for anyone or anything. They’re busy saving the world.

  “What could be so bad?” Sloane asks.

  “We’ll know soon,” Martinez replies. “Just get the job done.”

  Sloane grins. Nods at her right boot, which she finished repairing less than thirty minutes ago. Jen’s hard drive is in the sole. “I used triple-strength superglue. These soles aren’t going anywhere.”

  They fall silent.

  Martinez continues falling deeper into a spiral of thought. She is confident of only one thing: that Jen wanted her to find the hard drive. From there, her confidence deteriorates. She doesn’t know what’s waiting at Langley, or why. Her guilt and grief vanish into fear. Even anger. What the hell happened to my best friend?

  The jet enters the hangar. Stops with a lurch. Ground crews chock the wheels. The pilot emerges from the cockpit and cracks the door to lower the stairs. Martinez stands, grabs Jen’s backpack, and throws it over her shoulder. The feel of it chills her while sending a flash of anger through her system: If someone did this to Jen, I’ll hound them to the edges of the earth.

  “Careful, okay?”

  “It’s worth the risk,” Sloane replies, solemn.

  Martinez grabs her messenger bag. Rushes down the aisle, eager to be the first off the jet. A firing squad is waiting, and as the Group’s leader, she must take the brunt of the punishment.

  Woody is waiting for Martinez at the bottom of the stairs. A dozen officers flank him. They wear latex gloves. Hold evidence bags in their hands. One of them is a woman, and Martinez realizes that she’s going to be frisked—a first in her career.

  Martinez reaches the bottom of the stairs as the Bombardier’s engines power down. “Sir.”

  Woody doesn’t reply. He’s a wiry guy. Fit as hell for sixty years old. This morning, he’s in a black suit—one of his three cyclical colors. But his trademark American flag is on his lapel. That never changes. “I want your team’s phones and carry-on bags. They can leave their luggage in the hold.”

  Martinez struggles to hide her surprise. This guy could be her superior officer’s body double. They’ve always had a rapport. An understanding, which is vanishing.

  Her focus shifts as two individuals approach. The first is a man in a gray suit. He’s rakish. But his eyes are bloodshot, a sign that he’s been working for the past twelve hours. The second is a woman who is wearing latex gloves.

  “May I have your bags, ma’am?” the man in the suit asks.

  “Is this necessary, Director Thompson?” Martinez hands the bags over.

  Woody glares at Martinez. Angles a finger in her direction. “Not another fucking word, Ms. Martinez.”

  Martinez’s heart skips. Woody has never spoken to her in that way. She doesn’t reply because she doesn’t need to. Jen’s death is now a murder investigation, and we’re all suspects.

  Her gaze shifts as the man in the suit turns. Marches her bags to a waiting SUV and throws them in the back. She reaches into her right pant pocket and removes her cellphone. “This one is personal.” She reaches into the breast pocket of her jacket and removes her second cell. “This one is for work.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The woman drops each phone into an evidence bag. Labels them with a marker. She’s swift. Proficient. Makes Martinez wonder if she’s working with some type of imaginary checklist.

  The woman frowns. “I need to search your person, Ms. Martinez.”

  Martinez exhales. Restrains herself. First, from glancing at Sloane, which could trigger suspicion. Then, her temper. She doesn’t remember the last time she’s been so insulted. Does the CIA think that she’d kill her best friend?

  “Ready when you are.”

  The woman starts. She scrutinizes the entirety of Martinez’s body, including her bust. The lining of her suit. When her hands sweep down Martinez’s left arm, she removes Martinez’s watch. It’s an automatic, and she only returns it after peering through the sapphire case back. Her locket—a gift from her grandmother—receives the same intense scrutiny.

  “Shoes, please, ma’am.”

  Martinez steps out of her heels. Nudges them toward the woman and pays close attention as the search begins. It’s thorough. She pulls at the tongue of the shoe. Tests the insole before making a hearty attempt at separating the heel from the sole. As the woman starts on the second shoe, Martinez wonders if she’s holding some type of grudge, because she damn-near pulls it apart.

  With a tight smile, the woman returns the shoes to Martinez. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Martinez watches the woman approach Sloane, who is standing firm. Her pulse rises. OIG officers are inside the hold of the jet, removing the Group’s luggage. A parade of bags is marching toward the SUVs. More officers are waiting to board the jet—a sign that the Group hasn’t fully disembarked. Gray and Coco are already being frisked, which means Animal is still aboard.

  When she looks up the stairs, into the jet, her mouth falls open.

  Animal is standing at the top of the stairs, viewing the scene from on high. He holds his Grey Goose bottle in his right hand. A bar of sunlight crosses the bottle, causing the remnants to gleam. She thought she was concerned—until he starts down the stairs. After downing a bottle of vodka, he doesn’t bother grabbing the rail. He strolls down, his giant fists swinging at his sides, begging one of the suits to give him a hard time.

  “Sir, I need your personal bag and your cellphone.”

  The gray-suited man is now standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  “You want my bag?” Animal asks, voice even. Deadly. “Here you go.”

  Animal removes his backpack and shoves it into the suit’s chest. The suit stumbles backward and takes a dive. Makes it obvious that the only rough contact he gets is when his girlfriend pins him to the mattress. He pushes the backpack off his chest and heels backward, away from Animal.

  “Director Thompson,” the gray-suited man shouts. “I’m being attacked!”

  “You forgot my phone.” Animal pulls it from his pocket. Smashes it on the ground. Glass and bits of plastic scatter across the shiny gray concrete. What’s left of it bounces toward the suit but stops a few feet shy. “Butterfingers.”

  “Mr. Keats!” Woody shouts. “You will stand down!”

  Animal ignores the director. Takes slow, measured strides toward the gray-suited man, who continues scraping backward. “Stand back up. You and I can work on putting it back together.”

  “Charlie!” Martinez shouts. “That’s enough.”

  “You’re about thirty seconds away from a court-martial,” Woody adds.

  Animal glares toward Martinez. Rage and hurt are apparent in his eyes. Someone has betrayed them, and the CIA is following suit. He takes a heavy breath and nods. “Ma’am.”

  Martinez glances at Sloane. The thorough woman was starting on her boots—until Animal distracted her. Added the threat of severe violence to the situation. The woman’s hands are trembling as she searches Sloane’s boots. When she’s done, she returns them with a polite smile.

  Martinez hides her grin as she returns her focus to Woody. “Emotions are running high, sir. You understand, of course.”

  “With me,” he snaps, but he doesn’t immediately step off. He cups his hands over his mouth to address Martinez’s Group. “Your month-long vacation starts now. Don’t go far.”

  Woody heaves forward in one powerful step. Martinez double-times it, fixing herself to his shadow. When they exit the hangar, the Sikorsky’s rotor blades are spinning. In thirty minutes, it’ll touch down again on Langley’s private helipad, 84 VA, and then the debrief from hell will begin.

  Thirty-Three

  Moscow, Russia

  Fresh off a flight from Crimea, Anastasia Orlov is visiting a city of nightmares—Moscow.

  To her, the skyline isn’t a testament to history; it’s a monument to the first period of her life when she was truly alone.

  Back then, Victor was nearing the end of Spetsnaz training. He was days away from the front lines of Russia’s war against Islamic extremism. Anastasia was only halfway through her training at State School 4. Her days were a blur of mental conditioning, physical brutality, and sexual abuse. She survived to become a Swallow—and would eventually become one of GRU’s most lethal assets. Coupled with her digital sorcery, she achieved Russia’s highest honor: Hero of the Russian Federation.

  But that life belongs to Elizabet Ovechkin, the woman Anastasia Orlov used to be. She sacrificed Elizabet to join the Founders. Now, Elizabet is just a headstone in a Heroes’ Cemetery, and Anastasia is the ghost riding in the back of a sleek Mercedes-Benz S63 AMG.

  The route is familiar, leading toward the heart of the beast: Red Square and the Kremlin. St. Basil’s Cathedral looms ahead, its swirling, candy-colored domes mocking the gray misery of the streets. Despite her hatred of the city, she has always admired the cathedral. It’s beautiful, chaotic, and utterly hollow—much like the state itself.

  The driver stops at a red light. He meets her eyes in the rearview mirror and offers a tense, fractured smile. “Ma’am?”

  Anastasia arches a brow. Drivers at this level are furniture; they do not speak unless spoken to. People with political power tend to disappear in Russia—Anastasia faked her own assassination five years ago to join the zakonny vladetts. Now, the threat of disappearing for real is always present.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “I have something for you.” The driver reaches into the breast pocket of his suit.

  Anastasia’s hand drifts to her hip, fingers brushing the grip of her concealed pistol.

  The driver pulls out a large, heavy coin. Her hand stills.

  “This is from some of Victor’s old friends at Kubinka-2. We thought you should have it.”

  Anastasia’s breath catches in her throat. Her hand trembles as she takes the coin. The cold metal warms instantly against her skin. It bears the insignia of Victor’s last unit before he joined the Founders. Kubinka-2: the land-based element of Russia’s KSSO, the sister unit to Senezh. The best of the best, and they’re under the direct control of the Main Directorate.

  It’s a gesture of profound respect. As she stares down at the coin, the grief she keeps locked behind a wall of rage threatens to spill over. Her vision blurs. Her bottom lip quivers. She looks away, out the window, hiding her humanity.

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” The driver’s response is curt, professional. He understands the weight of the moment. Out of respect, he keeps his eyes forward for the duration of the ride.

  The light turns green. Anastasia slips the coin into the breast pocket of her suit, pressing it against her heart. She distracts herself with the view. Red Square should be teeming with tourists, but the war in Ukraine has crushed the industry. The square is empty, save for police patrols and the ghosts of a failing economy.

  The Mercedes glides toward the Kremlin. The imposing red walls rise, engulfing the sedan in shadow. Thanks to the government plates, they sweep through the outer checkpoint. When the car parks, Anastasia doesn’t wait for the door to be opened. It’s a pretentious ritual she has no patience for.

  She clears security with a flash of credentials and a scan of her weapon. The halls of the Kremlin are magnificent—gilded walls, shimmering oriental carpets, chandeliers dripping with crystal. Members of the Presidential Regiment stand at every doorway in sharp navy-blue uniforms. As she passes, they snap to attention, necks craned in exaggerated salutation.

  An executive assistant leads her to a cavernous conference room. Daniil sits alone at a table built for thirty. He looks like a king in exile—a survivor built to overcome any setback.

  “Will there be anything else, Defense Secretary?” the assistant asks.

  “That will be all,” Daniil says, his tone icy. He extends a hand toward a chair. “Join me, Ana.”

  “You’re spending a lot of time here.” Anastasia approaches the table slowly, letting her heels click against the parquet floor.

  “You’re not far behind,” Daniil says. “When you’re ready, consider becoming State Research’s corporate liaison at the Kremlin. I could use the help.”

  Pride swells in her chest as she sits. Daniil’s new position is a testament to the Founders’ ascending power. In Russia, the concept of politics—of platforms, voting blocks, and the will of the populace—is barely an afterthought. The state functions as a ladder, existing solely for the political elite and the oligarchy to ascend the ranks. The zakonny vladetts aren’t a criminal organization in the traditional sense; they’re a private intelligence agency built to support, protect, and enhance the wealth of Russia’s most elite individuals.