For Jen, Anastasia is the white whale—always at the top of the list, always out of reach. The mystery surrounding her is a hallmark of the zakonny vladetts—the rightful owners. Jen has the name, but nothing of the person. There are only fragments of a broken origin story: a mother who found an early grave, and a father claimed by the slow, ugly rot of cirrhosis.

  And then, the anomaly: a single photograph. It exists not because of tradecraft, but as a kind of glitch in the Founders’ network—a sheer, lucky accident. The frame captures Anastasia Orlov and a man departing the sanctuary of an upscale Italian resort. They walk with hands intertwined, a display of casual intimacy sealed by the wedding bands on their fingers.

  Jen found the photograph several months ago. When she learned the identity of Anastasia’s supposed husband, Jen kept the photograph from Martinez and the other members of her Technical Access Group. It became an obsession, and the secrecy allowed her to plan her mission in private. And as she planned, she found a target well outside the agency’s purview …

  But someone pierced the veil of secrecy, and Jen’s list of enemies is long. Intelligence officers from China to Venezuela could be responsible. Either way, she’s in for a serious dose of pain, and no one is going to come and save her. Who saves a dead woman, after all?

  That’s not the biggest issue on her mind. Animal, Coco, and Gray are her primary concerns. Until a couple of hours ago, she was their team leader. Responsible for delivering them to safety. Instead, she abandoned them, and she’s terrified of the potential consequences.

  Will they be able to escape Ukraine? The Vympel operators and the Universal Launch Module were their mission. The mission is over, like their business in Luhansk. To escape, they’ll have to cross the front line. A deadly proposition.

  They’re professionals, she reminds herself. They’ll manage.

  But her reassurances are weak. No matter how skilled they are, thousands of Russian soldiers stand between them and freedom. Like her, their chances of survival diminish with each passing second.

  Twelve

  Luhansk, Ukraine

  The western edge of the city is an industrial suburb. Factories and small homes fill the streets. One- or two-story houses on manicured lawns—even in the middle of a war. Mansions, for those who own local businesses, occasionally pop up.

  The map on Animal’s nav-board calls this area the Naiohovo District, but he isn’t using it to track the team’s progress. Too much light, and light is risky. Lev is receiving verbal guidance from the TOC.

  It’s a solid defense, but beyond that, it gets thin.

  The Land Cruiser’s head- and taillights are out. There’s no light in the vehicle. No sound other than the wailing engine and the hum of rubber as it grips the asphalt. Animal is in the back, cradling a belt-fed, making sure they aren’t being followed, prepared to deter anyone who tries. Coco is in the passenger seat, covering a sector. Gray is behind Lev, covering what the driver cannot see.

  They’re also the only travelers on Andriya Lyn’ova Street—a four-lane artery that feeds Luhansk. The Russian military closes it at night. Official traffic only. Anyone breaking the rule is automatically an intruder. A possible enemy soldier or spy. Strip malls and convenience stores line the street. Machine gun barrels could be behind those thin veneers of glass, ready to make sure the rule sticks.

  “Sierra Two, this is TOC. How do you copy?” Martinez asks over the radio.

  “I’m with you, TOC. What’s going on?” Animal asks.

  “We’re detecting a small troop presence at your extract location.”

  “Define small.”

  “One light utility vehicle. Four soldiers, max.”

  “Deserters?”

  “Likely,” Martinez replies. “The village is abandoned, so they’re hiding out.”

  “We’ll handle them⁠—”

  A burst of machine gun fire splits the darkness. The tracers arc over the Land Cruiser. Close enough to hear them crack through the SUV’s thin skin. Animal catches the trail of the tracer bullets as they fall into the horizon.

  “Those weren’t warning shots!” Coco says. “Convenience store on the passenger side.”

  Another burst erupts from the convenience store. The gunner’s aim is improving. His shots are level with the Land Cruiser, but his lead is off. The burst misses the Land Cruiser’s tail end by a few meters.

  “Step on it, Lev,” Animal shouts.

  “The gas pedal is already on the floorboard, bro!”

  Animal activates his mic. “TOC, we’re in contact.” He pauses as headlights warm the convenience store lot. Two sets, and they belong to Tigr-M infantry vehicles. They’re like American Humvees. Armor, bulletproof glass, mounted machine guns, maybe. They could also have automatic grenade launchers or anti-aircraft missile systems. “We have two vehicles in pursuit! I need you to put ordnance on them now!”

  “It’s not possible, Sierra Two,” Martinez replies. “We’ve got one Hellfire remaining, and a BMP patrol is preparing to respond, west of your position. You’re going to run into them in five—maybe four minutes.”

  “Pop that fuckin’ armor and get us out of here, TOC!”

  “I’ll land the goddamn Wraith on top of their heads if I have to, Sierra Two.”

  “Weapons hot, boys! Clear to engage!” Animal moves toward the Land Cruiser’s rear hatch. Rams the muzzle of his belt-fed through the glass. The entire pane shatters. Gets sucked into the street by the vortex generated by the Cruiser’s draft. He rests the weapon on the newly created ledge, preparing to engage.

  The Tigrs speed onto the road. As they make their turns, their armored bodies roll and bottom out their suspensions. Their engines growl as the drivers attempt to close the distance, but their armor weighs them down.

  Animal rests his cheek on the stock of the machine gun. Drops the safety. Distance is hard to gauge under night vision—his world is almost two-dimensional—but he enjoys a challenge. And some competition. “How do you have it?”

  “Twelve … no, eleven hundred yards.” Coco rests his rifle on the back seat, beside the headrest. It’s a Knight’s Armament SR-10, chambered in 6.5 Creedmoor. A sniper’s dream rifle. “Mark the gunner and call it.”

  “I’m calling it a thousand yards. Loser buys the booze back in Poland,” Animal replies.

  “Hope you’ve been making your credit card payments,” Coco replies.

  Animal posts his reticle on the lead Tigr’s gunner, who is now visible in the turret. He pulls the trigger. Delivers a short three-round burst on target.

  The three bullets arc in his night vision. With the distance, they seem slow. Like a video playing at half speed. But their effects are devastating. They hit the Tigr’s windshield, which can withstand the impacts. The armor-piercing rounds fragment. Hot metal sparks and explodes in his night vision.

  The Tigr doesn’t even swerve in response.

  Brave driver, Animal thinks. After all, it takes a hefty pair of balls to put faith in anything that rolled out of a Russian factory. But he will test the driver’s resilience, along with the bulletproof glass protecting his face. Even if it holds, it’ll be impossible to see through with a thousand cracks racing through it.

  Coco delivers a follow-up shot. The 6.5 Creedmoor is devastatingly accurate. The bullet strikes the gunner’s turret. In response, the gunner jerks low. He’s unable to aim his machine gun, but he sends a wild burst toward the Land Cruiser. Gigantic muzzle flashes light the Tigr. The bullets hit low, left. Zing off the asphalt and streak past the Land Cruiser.

  “Eleven hundred it is. Looks like there’s a breeze too,” Coco says. “I’ll take my payment in Patron.”

  “Bullshit. They slowed down after I took my shots.”

  Coco grins. “Why do you think I told you to shoot first?”

  “Hope you like Jose Cuervo.” Animal turns, finds Gray in the passenger seat, preparing to crawl through the Land Cruiser’s sunroof. “Put some forty millimeter on target!”

  “Thirty seconds!” Gray shouts.

  Animal turns back around and finds his target closer. He centers his reticle on the turret and delivers another burst. And another. Coco’s rifle works alongside Animal’s machine gun. Bullets pepper the Tigr, but it only speeds up. The Tigr’s gunner responds with another flurry of gunfire.

  There’s a thump above Animal.

  Seconds later, a high-explosive grenade explodes in front of the Tigr, forcing it to slow.

  The second Tigr veers out of formation, and its gunner opens up with another onslaught of machine gun rounds. They cut across Animal’s night vision. Enough to make him think it’s crossfire. They impact the Jersey wall, spraying sparks and concrete fragments onto the Land Cruiser.

  “That guy must have gotten a fuckin’ marksmanship badge in basic,” Animal shouts.

  “Russia’s best,” Coco agrees. A second later, his rifle barks. A shadow shifts and slumps in the second Tigr’s turret. “Shame to lose him!”

  Mirosławiec Airbase, Poland

  The BMPs, Russia’s version of armored personnel carriers, are nose to nose on Andriya Lyn’ova Street. They’re blocking all four lanes, and their turrets are pointed east, toward what remains of Martinez’s team. Two more UAZs, Russia’s version of a military Jeep, sit behind them. Soldiers accompanying the BMPs have climbed atop them. Or kneel by their sides. Their rifles follow the direction of the turrets: east.

  If her team runs into the roadblock, they will not survive. Martinez wasn’t kidding about landing the Wraith on top of the BMPs, and she’ll be damned if she loses another person under command tonight.

  “What’s our team’s ETA?” Martinez asks.

  “Two minutes,” replies the Air Force liaison. “We can change their route, but they’ll have to get close to those BMPs to do it.”

  “Can you split the difference with the Hellfire?”

  “There’s a saying about that, only it’s two pieces of armor and one rocket.”

  Martinez nods. “Just like that.”

  “We’ll find out.” The liaison relays the target coordinates to the drone pilot. Authorizes the strike. Fifteen seconds later, a streak of white races across the ISR feed. When the Hellfire explodes, the entire screen blanks out. The liaison shifts the display from thermal to unenhanced, but there’s nothing but smoke and fire swirling around the BMPs.

  “Direct hit on the BMP in the western lane. Unsure about the eastern lane.”

  “Update them on their route,” Martinez says, her concern growing.

  Animal turns, catching a white-hot mushroom cloud as it races into the sky. It’s over a mile away, maybe more, but he still feels the concussion reverberate through the asphalt.

  “Sierra Four, you’re approaching a median. When you see it, hang a hard left and veer into the wheat field next to the freeway.”

  “Solid copy,” Lev says.

  Animal doesn’t question the call, or the efficacy of the strike. If they’re rerouting the team, it’s because they’ve got no business closing in on the BMPs. But it’s obvious Martinez wants them to disappear, and that’s not possible with two Tigrs in chase. He activates his radio. “Their run-flats won’t be worth a damn off-road!”

  “Got it!” Coco replies.

  Gray’s voice echoes in Animal’s earpiece. “On it!”

  The team hammers the Tigrs. It’s a different brand of fury than before. It’s forceful and overwhelming. A Hail Mary pass in the last seconds of the game. Gray’s grenades explode on the asphalt and pepper the tires. Animal’s rounds skip against the asphalt; some hit the armor covering the radiator, others make like they’re going to pop a tire.

  None of it works, but it doesn’t have to.

  The Tigrs slam on their brakes, which is a sight to behold. Russian manufacturing at its finest. Their chassis pitch forward, and the sound of their engines fades. Their tires smoke as they skid. The brakes on the left-hand Tigr fail. It cuts in front of the other Tigr as it skids toward the Jersey wall. They collide, and their collective momentum sends them careening through the Jersey wall.

  “Air power!” Coco says.

  “The fear of God,” Animal replies.

  “Brace yourselves!” Lev shouts.

  Animal and Coco pitch themselves against the back seat as the Land Cruiser makes a hard left turn. The vehicle heaves and rocks as it crosses a grass median. It dips into a small drainage gulley and heaves them both into the air as it exits. They would laugh if two BMPs weren’t sitting in the distance.

  But they’re consumed by fire. Rounds are cooking off. Men are prying themselves out of the burning steel husks, smoke clinging to their backs. Both of their barrels remain still as the Land Cruiser stabs into a wheat field. At fifty miles an hour, the stalks fold and sweep against the Land Cruiser. Its tires dip and bounce out of ruts in the field. The only light that finds the Land Cruiser comes from the occasional exploding shell, which are in no short supply in Ukraine.

  Thirteen

  Port of Sevastopol, Crimea

  Another sleepless night.

  The cot Anastasia Orlov is using belongs in a Russian penal colony. Its frame is metal. The bedding is nylon. After laying on the cot for several hours, her nerves, joints, and muscles ache. She considers the pain a blessing. It hardens her resolve, just like the solitude she imposed on herself.

  Like her bed, this building is spartan. Down to the essentials—a type of medicine for the soul. Trays full of wires traverse the concrete ceiling. Rooms full of servers and military hard cases. The first-floor windows are bulletproof and buttressed by sandbags.

  Five months ago, Jen Yates killed her twin brother, Victor.

  To process the grief, she is distancing herself from the few friends she has and her husband, who is the only remaining member of her family. Aside from Victor, her husband is the only other man she’s ever loved and respected. But their love and relationship are different. The modern definition of a power couple who put their goals before personal needs.

  Those goals brought her to one of the Russian military’s largest ports. After her success in London, the Founders gave her the right to own—the very meaning of their name zakonny vladetts, or rightful owners.

  She is now a large shareholder in Russia’s fastest-growing defense contractor, the State Research Corporation. The name is nondescript, but its mission is essential to Russia’s war effort. With the help of Leo, the Founders’ quantum computer, she is safeguarding the port from drone attacks. The contract is worth hundreds of millions of dollars, but it’s just one of the many her company has with the Russian Federation.

  This work is her world now … and it was Victor’s, too. Their combined efforts made all this possible. The thought accompanies her as she grinds through the long nights. In some dark corner of her mind, she can still feel him nearby, watching. Cheering her on from the sidelines.

  In life, he was never far away. In death, he’s no different. She is certain of it.

  An alarm sounds. Leo is warning her about an upcoming attack. She is quick on her feet, and before she moves, she grabs a special item resting at her bedside: Victor’s Spetsnaz patch. She fastens the patch to the Velcro on her tactical shirt. Pain spikes through her knees and lower back as she lunges for the door and sprints into the corridor. As she moves, her muscles loosen, allowing her to rapidly take the stairs. She’s a professional responding to a crisis threatening to engulf the Navy’s Black Sea Fleet.

  Anastasia bursts into the third-floor control room. It’s crowded with computers, laptops, and comms equipment. The far wall is all glass, a row of windows facing west toward the mouth of the port and the Black Sea beyond.

  “What do you have, Leo?” she asks, twisting her long auburn hair into a bun while moving to the window.

  “I have a signal lock on an Unmanned Surface Vehicle, ma’am,” Leo replies. The voice is synthetic but refined, the only sign that it belongs to something inhuman. That, and a level of processing power no human mind could match. “Sea mist is degrading my optical sensors. I cannot achieve a clear visual ID.”

  Anastasia snatches a pair of thermal binoculars off a nearby table and steps in front of the largest window. Beyond the glass, the port’s mouth is a smear of lights and fog. “I can’t see anything. Give me a distance.”

  “The USV is two thousand meters from the port’s boom system,” Leo replies. “Current speed: thirty-five knots.”

  Fast. Too fast for comfort. It leaves her with minutes at best.

  “Fingerprint the system,” she orders.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  While Leo analyzes the drone’s onboard electronics, she brings the thermal binoculars to her crystalline blue eyes and scans the field of view. A series of buoys floats across the mouth of the port, marking the position of the maritime boom. It’s a massive steel chain designed to rip the hull and propellers off any vessel that tries to force its way in.

  The Ukrainians know that. So do the Americans advising them. Nobody sails blindly into a boom.

  She sweeps the fog again. A smudge of heat appears on the edge of the thermal display—just a hot white speck at first, then a clearer shape.

  “My fingerprint is complete, ma’am,” Leo says. “Platform is a Magura V5. Operators are controlling it via a 256-bit encrypted data link. The cryptographic scheme is not quantum-resistant.”

  The Americans aren’t supporting Ukraine tonight. Without the Advanced NeuroNet Engine, or Anne, they’re sending this drone straight into her shredder.

  “Got you,” Anastasia says.

  The Magura V5 emerges more fully from the mist in her optics. It looks like a small, aggressive speedboat. No pilot aboard. Five and a half meters long, low profile, built for speed—and to explode. It’s capable of sending a Russian frigate to the sea floor if it connects.

  She’s about to take it offline when Leo interrupts her.