Chapter 10

I entered the Meridian facility wearing a wire beneath my dress uniform and an Aegis access token that had been fabricated eleven minutes earlier.

It looked legitimate.

That was all it needed to do.

Federal tactical teams watched from concealed positions.

Vale spoke through an earpiece hidden beneath my hair.

“Twenty meters.”

I walked.

The warehouse smelled like oil and dust.

Old conveyor systems disappeared into darkness.

Emergency lights cast long yellow shadows.

“Fifteen.”

My polished shoes sounded absurdly loud on the concrete.

“Ten.”

Then I saw my mother.

She was seated in a metal chair.

Not tied.

That surprised me.

Hendricks stood behind her holding a pistol low against his leg.

My mother looked furious.

Not frightened.

Furious.

That was Evelyn Carter.

Sixty-three years old.

Five foot four.

Retired school principal.

Could terrify teenagers, insurance representatives, and grown Army officers with exactly the same expression.

She saw me.

“What did I tell you?”

I almost laughed.

Hendricks did.

“She’s remarkable.”

“Let her go.”

“Give me the token.”

I held it up.

His eyes locked onto it.

“First her.”

“No.”

“Then we have a problem.”

He smiled.

“You always were stubborn.”

“You barely know me.”

His smile faded.

“I knew you before you were born.”

Everything inside me stopped.

“What?”

My mother closed her eyes.

Hendricks glanced at her.

“She never told you.”

“Told me what?”

Vale’s voice whispered in my ear.

“Keep him talking.”

I didn’t need encouragement.

“What didn’t she tell me?”

Hendricks took one step closer.

“Your father wasn’t supposed to marry her.”

My mother said, “Paul.”

He ignored her.

“He wasn’t supposed to have children.”

My throat tightened.

“What are you talking about?”

“Marcus Carter wasn’t merely an Army officer investigating Meridian.”

My mother stood.

Hendricks pointed the weapon.

“Sit.”

She did not.

I said, “Mom.”

She looked at me.

And in her eyes I saw something I had never seen before.

Guilt.

Hendricks smiled.

“Ask her.”

“Ask her what?”

“Why there was no body after your father’s helicopter crash.”

I stared at my mother.

There had been a burial.

Closed casket.

I remembered the flag.

The chaplain.

My mother’s hand crushing mine.

“Mom?”

She said nothing.

My heart began pounding.

“Was Dad’s body recovered?”

Her eyes filled.

“No.”

The word almost disappeared in the huge building.

I felt as if the ground moved.

“You told me—”

“I told you what I was ordered to tell you.”

Hendricks laughed softly.

“Finally.”

“Ordered by who?”

My mother looked toward the shadows behind Hendricks.

Then she whispered:

“Your father.”