For Martinez, it’s like a mile marker in a battle that started almost a year ago, when the Founders kidnapped Terrance Kline and two operators from the Army’s Combat Applications Group. The Founders’ goal was singular: drag Martinez and the Technical Access Group into a well-laid trap in Mexico City. They used that operation to study Anne—to reverse-engineer the quantum operating system and graft it onto their own architecture.

  Now that stolen code is helping Russia win its war in Ukraine. For Martinez and the CIA, it’s definitive proof that the Founders are more than a criminal syndicate. They’re a geopolitical force with a seat at the Kremlin’s table.

  Martinez reaches the Secure Compartmented Information Facility. She badges in, passes the biometric scan, and seals the heavy soundproof door behind her.

  The room is cool, lit only by the blue glow of the secure monitors. She sits at the conference table and keys in the sequence for a Secure Video Teleconference with Langley.

  The connection establishes instantly.

  Andrew ‘Woody’ Thompson fills the center screen.

  Woody is sitting in a SCIF back at Langley, looking exactly as he has for the decade she’s known him. He’s a wiry man in his sixties, built like a long-distance runner who refuses to age. His gray hair is parted, and he wears a crisp black suit with his trademark American flag pin shining on the lapel.

  He is solid. Unshakable.

  He is also one of the few high-ranking officers at Langley Martinez trusts. They survived the fallout of Mexico City together, and he gave her the latitude to settle the score with Alex Varga.

  “Director,” Martinez says.

  “Gabby.” Woody doesn’t use her title. He leans forward, studying her face on the screen. He sees through the beauty, straight to the wreck underneath. “I saw the report. I’m sorry.”

  “The mission was a success. Kyiv is safe. Russia’s missiles are burning in their launch vehicles,” she says, forcing out words that feel like a lie. How can she call tonight a success after what happened with Jen? To her, it’s a failure, and always will be. “Our assault team is ten minutes from the Polish border.”

  “I know.” Woody pauses. He rubs a hand over his jaw. “You made the only call you could. You know that, right?”

  “It doesn’t feel that way.”

  “It never does, Gabby.” Woody shifts, his demeanor hardening back into that of the Director of Operations. “We need to talk about the next steps. I’m pulling your team. As soon as the birds touch down, I want everyone wheels up for Dulles.”

  Martinez nods. This is the standard operating procedure for a major loss. Back in the States, her team will be able to grieve Jen’s loss and attend her funeral. “Understood. I’ve already prepped the team for stand-down. Lev Soroka is being reassigned to our replacement element.”

  “There is one more thing. It’s sensitive.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We cannot recover the body, Gabby,” Woody says softly. “The Russians are swarming the site. If they find an American intelligence officer—even a dead one—in Luhansk, the geopolitical fallout will be catastrophic. We can’t give them that win.”

  “I know the protocol, sir.”

  “We have to sanitize the site,” Woody says. “I’ve authorized a follow-on strike. We’re going to level the structure. We have to deny the enemy the trophy.”

  Martinez feels the blood drain from her face. They are going to vaporize what is left of Jen.

  And he is right.

  If the Russians find Jen’s body, they’ll parade it on state television. They’ll use her to escalate the war. Jen’s family, along with the rest of the American public, would have a ringside seat to the spectacle.

  “Gabby?” Woody asks. “I need you to confirm you’re tracking.”

  Martinez looks at the American flag pin on his lapel. She thinks of the oath they both swore.

  “I copy, Director,” she whispers. “Sanitize the site.”

  “You’re a good officer,” Woody says. “Get your people home. I’ll see you in Virginia.”

  The screen goes black.

  Martinez sits in the silence of the SCIF, alone with the ghosts of her decisions.

  Eighteen

  Walter Reed, Maryland

  The CIA believes that Jen Yates is dead. They have no reason to scrutinize Terrance Kline. Even if they did, he’s a paraplegic who is on medical leave. His name would be the last on their list. And his superior officer, Gabriella Martinez, is a few thousand miles away in Ukraine. Who is going to notice what he’s about to do?

  Terrance’s behavior is changing. It has been hours since he got the news of Jen’s death. He has been clutching his morphine dispenser ever since—but he hasn’t pressed the button. Triggered that hit of relief that it promises.

  Without morphine in his system, he is detoxing, and his body is at war with his brain. He is trembling and nauseated and sweating. Morphine is a powerful drug, and it helped him forget the meaning of suffering. As he sweats the drug out of his system, the pain in his back intensifies.

  He is lucky, though. Sloane’s news came late in the day. It’s allowing him to detox at night, when the lights are low and the halls aren’t busy.

  It’s a miracle the Walter Reed nurses haven’t noticed. They care for the men and women who serve, and that fact drives them to be the best in the world. They notice the minor details. Remember the names of their patients. Take note of the comforts that make them happy; Terrance’s is blue Jell-O. It tastes the same as the red and the green and purple, but it makes him grin. The nurses always make sure it’s on his tray, and he loves them for it.

  “You’re not supposed to be down here, sir.”

  The head nurse, Janine. Terrance recognizes her voice. Figures she’s in the hall, making her midnight rounds. He gets nervous. Locks his jaw to prevent his teeth from chattering and swipes the sweat off his brow. He pulls the blanket higher over his face and shuts his eyes.

  “I won’t wake him.”

  That voice belongs to Al Hastings, who is a retired member of the U.S. Army’s Combat Application Group and is currently a member of Martinez’s Technical Access Group. Several months ago, Ceno Lika shot Hastings in London. He was fortunate; Ceno Lika used a small-caliber handgun. Hastings’s body armor absorbed most of the punishment. But several bullets struck the upper portion of his chest, away from his heart and other vital organs. He has been at Walter Reed recovering since the shooting took place.

  Terrance tenses up at the sound of Hastings’s voice, but for a different reason. Jen gave Terrance a mission, but he can’t do it alone. It’s time to recruit a new team member, but without an actual objective, that could be a challenge.

  He opens his eyes. Hastings’s shadow moves across the curtain that hangs in front of the glass wall. When Hastings enters the room, his sadness is obvious. Usually, his blue eyes are intense, but tonight, they’re dull. His red, wavy hair is also a mess. He is back to using his cane, something Terrance hasn’t seen in several weeks. Grief has a way of beating up a person.

  “You’re awake?” Hastings asks.

  “You’re late!” Terrance hisses. “Get in here and shut the door.”

  The weight in Hastings’s eyes disappears, replaced by a predatory gleam. Maybe something that belongs in an asylum. He shifts, closes the sliding door, and approaches Terrance’s bed. He rests his weight on the cane and leans in. “What’s happening?”

  Terrance has Jen’s card in his free hand, underneath the blanket. He hasn’t let go of it since he read it—just like the morphine dispenser. It’s wavy and deformed by heat and sweat as he passes it to Hastings. “Jen has a job for us.”

  “Are you—” Hastings cuts himself off and leans closer to Terrance. He grips Terrance’s wrist. Checks his pulse. “What’s going on? You don’t look too good.”

  “No different from you.” Terrance passes the morphine dispenser to Hastings. “Get this thing away from me. I haven’t had any since I read Jen’s note.”

  Hastings takes the dispenser and rests it on the nightstand. His grin is wide. Even a little proud. “Time to get back to work, brother.”

  Terrance nods. Conceals his grin. Recruitment complete. But he’s not surprised.

  Since Hastings’s arrival at Walter Reed, the two men have become brothers. They worked together in Mexico City, and while their missions overlapped, their job descriptions didn’t allow them to interact. But they’re on the same team, and at Walter Reed, their healing journeys have become one.

  “Read it,” Terrance says.

  “Check me out at the Baltimore Library,” Hastings says, reading the note. “This means Jen’s alive. Must be. I mean, how else do we interpret this?”

  “Like there’s a job to do. That’s it,” Terrance replies, refusing to hope. If he allows himself to hope, and Jen is dead, it will be like losing her twice. Once is already too much to handle. “Jen is leading us somewhere—that’s all I can tell you. This isn’t about what we want.”

  “Right.” Hastings shuts the card. Exhales a deep breath as he processes the situation. “You’re right.”

  “You ready to check out early?”

  “Never did like this place,” Hastings replies. “Should I grab a nurse? Tell her to start the paperwork?”

  “No, it’ll raise a flag at the agency,” Terrance says. “If we can get out clean, we’ll have a head start on Jen’s assignment.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Terrance smirks. “I count myself lucky when I can get through to you.”

  “Bastard …” Hastings chuckles. “You know you’ll be on your own with me, right? These gorgeous nurses won’t come to your rescue.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Terrance replies. While he’s been detoxing, his mind has been working. He has a plan, and with his new team, he can get to work. “I need you to find the service elevators. Make sure we can access them. I’ll also need a chair.”

  “On it.”

  Hastings hangs his cane on the nightstand and exits the room with a newfound spring in his step. Terrance assumes he’ll be back in five, so he makes use of the time. He forces himself upright, which is a process, and his trembling arms don’t offer the help he expects. By the time he’s done, tears streak his face, and he’s glad that Hastings didn’t see them. He lowers the protective rail at the edge of the bed. Throws off his blankets and lifts his left leg over the side. Pushes himself up and adjusts his position. When the angle is right, he lowers his right leg off the bed.

  He’s breathing through sheer agony when an alarm sounds. A code blue, which means a patient is crashing. Terrance reaches for his cellphone, which is next to his pillow. He opens the Uber app. Hails a driver to Walter Reed. When he’s finished, he throws the phone back onto the bed. He made a career out of tracking electronic devices, and he assumes Jen’s task will require privacy, which is why he’s going to leave it behind.

  Hastings rushes back into the room moments later. He’s pushing a wheelchair while using it for balance. “Needed a diversion,” he says, a little winded.

  “You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

  “An old Team Six buddy is on the floor.” Hastings approaches Terrance’s bed. “He unplugged his heart rate monitor for me.”

  Terrance would laugh, but he can only focus on the chair, certain that he’s about to endure an extremely painful experience. He gives Hastings a nod. “Let’s do it.”

  Hastings lifts Terrance off the bed. Lowers him into the chair as gently as possible. Terrance grips the arms of the chair. Grinds his teeth. His eyes bulge. He forgets to breathe, and as Hastings ushers him out of the room, he’s on the verge of passing out.

  They reach the far end of the ward. Stop in front of the door that leads to the service elevators. Keycards aren’t required to access them. Hastings throws open the door. Pushes Terrance inside. Inside are linen carts and dollies. A noticeable lack of cleanliness compared to the rest of the hospital.

  Hastings mashes the call button, grins back at Terrance. “You think the chair has a tracking device on it?”

  Terrance laughs despite the pain and shakes his head. “No wonder you got shot by an Albanian.”

  “Nah, it was just a science experiment.”

  “You lost me, as usual.”

  “Never shoot a large man with a small bullet. I’m living proof, and my experiment was a success.”

  The door opens. Hastings chuckles and pushes Terrance into the carriage. As the door closes, Terrance wonders what the hell he bargained for. And it has nothing to do with his pain, or Jen—it’s the crazy person he’s trapped in the elevator with. But Al Hastings is his brother, and he couldn’t think of a better teammate to answer Jen’s call with.

  The elevator reaches the ground level. They sneak past a distracted security guard at the service entrance. When they circle back to the front of the building, Terrance’s Uber is waiting to take them to his apartment in Virginia.

  Nineteen

  Where am I?

  Jen jackknifes on the mattress. Her rifle is beside the bed. She grabs it. Activates the visible laser. She squints at the beam as her vision adjusts. She walks it across the dimly lit room, allowing her thoughts to realign with reality.

  Maksym.

  The basement full of weapons.

  And the screaming alarm clock on her digital watch. The sound isn’t as sharp as she remembers. It’s dull. Distant. Overshadowed by the ringing in her ears. She scoots back. Props herself against the stone wall, silences the alarm, and appraises the room.

  The battery-powered lantern is glowing at her bedside. She’s not one to sleep with the lights on, but she didn’t want to fumble through the darkness in the event of an emergency. Her surroundings are undisturbed—a notch in Maksym’s column. She can’t trust the Azov Battalion, but it boosts her confidence.

  Her condition is a serious problem, though. She’s got a flight to catch—in Russia. To make it, she’ll have to cross Russia’s border and clear airport security. Her chances of success are slim, but she wouldn’t have made the journey if she had considered it impossible.

  Unfortunately, she’ll have to do it at fifty percent.

  Her migraine is gone, but it left her with a hangover. Her stomach is weak, but she isn’t nauseated. The lantern is dim, yet she wants to squint against the light. When the sun rises, her migraine could come back, bringing with it serious pain. Glancing at the clock, she sees it’s 5:00 a.m. Several hours of sleep weren’t enough to recover from last night’s abuse.

  There’s a tap on the bedroom door.

  “Are you alive in there?” Maksym asks.

  “Working on it,” she replies.

  “Then kit up and let’s roll!”

  “Give me ten!”

  Jen reaches for the canister beside the lantern, twisting the lid to fish out a couple of pills.

  First, the Provigil. A 200mg “go-pill” favored by pilots. It promises fifteen hours of energized focus, overriding the body’s demand to shut down. But she hesitates, the large white tablet resting in her palm. Stimulants spike blood pressure. If the Hellfire caused an internal hemorrhage—a slow leak in the brain or gut—this pill could act as an accelerant, pumping her life out faster.

  It’s a gamble, but she needs the energy and focus. She tosses the pill back with a swig of water. Chases it with a single Vicodin. The same opioid that bought her sleep last night. It shouldn’t dull her edge, not with Provigil, but it’ll numb her pain.

  She shifts to the edge of the bed and shoves her feet into her boots. She grabs her chest rig and fastens it to her chest. After throwing on her leather jacket, she rechecks her rifle and exits.

  Kanye West is blasting from a boombox as Jen approaches the main room. Maksym sits with two of the men from last night; they’re the only remaining Azov Battalion members in the space. They’re in a half-circle, propped up on ammunition cans or hard cases, with a lantern glowing between them.

  Cigarettes dangle from their lips as they load magazines or wrap tape around grenades. After finishing a task, they reach for warm cans of beer and take a swig. Jen grins, recognizing pre-game when she sees it. They’re an idyllic image of guerrilla fighters. Hardened by austerity and scraping together whatever they can find to take the fight to their enemy.

  Maksym nods toward an ammunition can. When she sits, he grins, and it’s sinister in the lamplight. “Welcome to the party. Want a beer?”

  “Happy to be here, but I’ll pass. Got a belly full of pills.”

  “Stick with water, then. We’re going to cover a lot of miles today,” Maksym replies.

  The man sitting on Maksym’s side stops shoving shotgun shells into the front loops of his plate carrier. He stares up at her. “Pills are good. I like pills.”

  “Is that your way of asking if I have more?” Jen notices dry blood along the edges of his fingernails, a sign of recent violence. He removed the sleeves of his uniform to show off the burn scars on his arms. Several of his knuckles are broken. His square face is tan and weathered. He could be thirty. Forty. Men who have lived hard are tough to pin down.

  “I just took the last ones,” Jen replies. “Lost the others in the trunk of a car. You might want to check there.”

  “Later,” he says, grinning.

  Maksym gives the man a proud nudge. “This is Yuriy. His grandfather was a partisan who fought the Soviets. War is in his blood.”

  “Some trades are worth keeping in the family. My old man is a veteran too,” Jen replies. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Pleasure,” Yuriy repeats.

  “That’s Danylo.” Maksym nods to the man on his opposite side. “He also speaks English.”

  “Morning.” Jen gives him a quick look. He’s larger than Yuriy by fifty pounds. He has pale skin and piercing blue eyes. His face is square and well-defined, the result of a disciplined diet. He is wearing a plain green chest rig without ceramic trauma plates. The straps are snug, highlighting his muscular chest. The elbows and knees of his uniform show signs of wear, with the fabric fraying at the edges.