422 They called me a liar in a courtroom packed with spectators, and my own mother made sure every person there accepted it as truth. With one hand resting on the Bible, she met the judge’s gaze and declared

Six hours later, a blacked-out SUV sped through the rain-slicked streets of Baltimore, Maryland. I sat in the backseat, wearing tactical gear for the first time in years. Beside me was General Carney, his face grim under the dim interior light of the vehicle.

"We located Thorne's cell phone signal," Carney said, tapping a tablet screen that displayed a blinking red dot in an abandoned industrial district near the harbor. "My boys are in position. But we have to move fast. If the buyers realize Curtis has been arrested, they’ll move to secure Thorne—or eliminate him."

"Thorne didn't run willingly," I said, checking the chamber of my sidearm. "He was loyal to my father. Curtis must have forced him."

"We'll find out soon enough," Carney said as the SUV came to a halt. "Stay close to me, Victoria. You’re a civilian now."

"I'm a soldier, General," I corrected him, my voice steady. "I don't sit in the car."

He offered a grim smile. "Fair enough."

We exited the vehicle into the pouring rain, moving quickly toward a rusted warehouse at the end of the pier. Two tactical operators from Carney’s personal security detail flanked us, their rifles raised.

The side door of the warehouse had been forced open. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of motor oil and stagnant water.

We moved in silence, our flashlights cutting through the darkness.

Suddenly, a muffled cry echoed from the far end of the warehouse, followed by the sound of a heavy blow.

"Clear!" a voice shouted in the dark.

We rushed forward, weapons drawn, rounding a corner into a small, makeshift office.

On the floor, tied to a chair, was an elderly man with wild white hair and a bloodied face. Dr. Aris Thorne. Standing over him were three men in tactical gear—but they weren't American soldiers. Their gear was unmarked, their movements professional, cold.

"Drop your weapons!" Carney roared.

The men didn't hesitate. They opened fire.

The warehouse erupted into a deafening chaos of gunshots. I dropped to the floor, rolling behind a stack of steel pallets as sparks flew from the metal above my head. The tactical operators returned fire, their suppressed rifles coughing in the darkness.

One of the mercenaries tried to flank Carney. I didn't think. The muscle memory of twelve years of combat took over instantly. I raised my sidearm, aligned the sights, and squeezed the trigger twice.

The mercenary crumpled to the floor, his weapon clattering away.

Within seconds, the firefight was over. The other two mercenaries lay dead, and the warehouse fell back into a tense, ringing silence.

I rushed over to Dr. Thorne, pulling a knife from my vest to cut his bonds. "Dr. Thorne! Are you alright?"

He coughed, spitting out blood, but his eyes widened with recognition as he looked at me. "Victoria... Arthur’s girl... thank God."

"We’re getting you out of here, Doctor," I said, helping him stand.

"No... you don't understand," Thorne gasped, clutching my arm. "The dead-man's switch... it's not a forty-eight-hour timer. Curtis changed it this morning when he realized he was losing control. He set it to trigger at midnight tonight. The code... the Vanguard code is already uploading!"

I looked at my watch.