Chapter 3 - Someone at the PartyI did not show fear.
That was training.
Fear is information.
You decide who receives it.
I turned the phone so Mercer could see the message.
His expression barely moved.
Ryan leaned over.
“What is that?”
“Someone here knows who I am.”
My mother made a small sound.
Mercer took out his phone immediately.
“Do not lock the property down.”
Ryan stared at him.
“What?”
“If whoever sent this is still here, the fastest way to make them run is to tell them we’re looking.”
He glanced at me.
“You agree?”
“Yes.”
Ryan seemed irritated that Mercer had asked me.
That would have been funny any other day.
I enlarged the photograph.
It had been taken through glass.
A reflection ran across the left edge.
Warm light.
Dark wood.
I knew my parents’ house well enough to recognize the location.
“Breakfast room.”
Dad frowned.
“What?”
“The photograph was taken through the breakfast-room door.”
That gave us an angle.
I walked out of the study.
Ryan followed.
“So what are we doing?”
“Nothing.”
“You just said—”
“We’re walking.”
“Claire.”
I stopped.
“For once in your life, Ryan, stop needing to be the person in charge.”
His face tightened.
I immediately regretted the cruelty.
Not because it was entirely wrong.
Because anger makes people careless.
I softened my voice.
“If someone here is dangerous, I need you to behave normally.”
“I am an Army captain.”
“I know.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“I know that too.”
We continued.
Guests remained scattered around the patio.
The photographer was packing his equipment.
Mom’s caterer carried untouched desserts back toward the kitchen.
Several people watched us with obvious curiosity.
I entered the breakfast room.
Empty.
The glass doors faced the backyard.
On the small writing desk sat a half-finished bourbon.
Beside it was a cocktail napkin.
I touched nothing.
“Dad?”
He entered behind Mercer.
“Who was drinking bourbon?”
Dad looked toward the glass.
“Half the men here.”
“This brand.”
He examined it.
“Macallan.”
“That narrows it.”
Dad thought.
“Senator Grayson drinks it. Peter Caldwell. Evan Marsh. Maybe Collins.”
I knew three of the names.
The fourth stopped me.
“Evan Marsh?”
Dad nodded.
“He’s around somewhere.”
I hadn’t seen Evan in twelve years.
We had grown up together.
His father and mine had worked in defense policy.
Evan had joined intelligence after college.
Officially, at least.
“What does Evan do now?”
Dad hesitated.
“Consulting.”
Everybody in Washington who couldn’t describe their job seemed to be a consultant.
Mercer asked, “Which agency?”
“He used to be CIA.”
My phone vibrated again.
Another message.
STOP DIGGING.
This time no photograph.
I looked around the breakfast room.
The sender was still close enough to watch our reaction.
Or had access to someone who was.
“Claire?”
Lauren stood in the doorway.
She had followed us from the study.
Her face was pale.
“There’s something I should tell you.”
I turned.
“What?”
“I saw someone upstairs.”
“When?”
“Maybe twenty minutes before the photo.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. A man.”
Ryan exhaled impatiently.
“There are thirty men here.”
Lauren glared at him.
“In Dad’s bedroom.”
That changed everything.
Dad stared at her.
“What?”
“I went upstairs because Emily spilled juice on her dress. I needed one of Mom’s stain pens. When I came down the hallway, a man stepped out of your bedroom.”
“Describe him.”
“Late forties. Maybe fifty. Gray suit. Tall. Dark hair.”
Mercer looked at Dad.
“Guests matching that?”
Dad nodded.
“Several.”
Lauren continued.
“He smiled at me like nothing was wrong and said he was looking for the restroom.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No.”
“What happened after?”
“He went downstairs.”
I asked, “Anything unusual?”
She hesitated.
“He was wearing gloves.”
The room became quiet.
“At an outdoor party?” Ryan asked.
“Thin gloves. Black.”
Mercer looked at me.
Professional.
Maybe.
Or simply paranoid.
I went upstairs.
Dad tried to stop me.
“Claire.”
I turned.
“If someone entered your room during a party, we need to know why.”
His jaw tightened.
“There are private things upstairs.”
“So was my contingency file.”
He stopped.
The master bedroom looked untouched.
Bed made.
Windows closed.
Closet doors shut.
I stood still.
People search rooms differently depending on their objective.
Thieves open obvious drawers.
Professionals leave them looking untouched.
I examined the desk.
Nothing.
Nightstands.
Nothing.
Then the bookshelf.
A photograph of my parents from their twentieth anniversary was slightly crooked.
Dad was obsessive about symmetry.
I lifted it.
Behind the frame was a small hole.
Fresh.
Mercer leaned toward it.
“Camera?”
“Maybe.”
I used my phone light.
No device.
Whatever had been there was already removed.
“Dad, why would someone monitor your bedroom?”
He rubbed his jaw.
“I don’t know.”
A thought occurred.
“Where do you keep the original photograph?”
He stared at me.
“The one from eleven years ago.”
His face changed.
“In the study.”
“No. You showed us a copy.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
I held up the photograph.
“The printing process is too new.”
Mercer took it from me.
He studied the edge.
I could see realization reach him.
Dad looked confused.
“I’ve never copied it.”
“Then someone replaced your original.”
We returned downstairs.
The fireproof box was still open.
I removed everything.
Two insurance papers.
An old passport.
A birth certificate.
Three letters from my grandfather.
Nothing else.
“Was there anything under the photograph?”
Dad looked.
Then his face drained.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A card.”
“What kind of card?”
“Plain white.”
“What was written on it?”
He looked at me.
“A phone number.”
My stomach tightened.
“The number that contacted you?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you keep it?”
“I called it once every year.”
Mom stared.
“You what?”
Dad looked ashamed.
“I wanted to find out who had done it.”
“Did anyone answer?”
“Never.”
“When did you call last?”
“Three weeks ago.”
I closed my eyes.
Three weeks.
Ryan’s return party had been planned publicly two weeks earlier.
Coincidence?
No.
“What happened when you called?”
“Nothing.”
“Voicemail?”
“No.”
“Ring?”
“One ring. Then disconnected.”
Mercer slowly shook his head.
“You activated something.”
Dad looked at him.
“What?”
“A dormant number,” I said. “If it was being monitored, your call told them you were still there.”
“And they knew Ryan’s party would bring the family together,” Mercer added.
Mom sank into a chair.
“This is insane.”
I looked through the window toward the backyard.
Guests had begun leaving.
Somebody who had spent eleven years hidden had made a mistake.
They sent a threat too quickly.
That meant they were nervous.
Nervous people rushed.
Rushed people left traces.
I called a number I hadn’t used in three years.
A woman answered on the fourth ring.
“This number is restricted.”
“Naomi?”
Silence.
Then:
“Claire?”
Dr. Naomi Pierce had once been Black Lantern’s technical intelligence specialist.
She now ran cybersecurity for an aviation company in Colorado.
At least officially.
“I need a favor.”
“Is this a favor that ruins my weekend?”
“Probably.”
“What happened?”
“Someone texted me from a masked number. I need metadata.”
“Send screenshots.”
I did.
Three minutes later she called back.
“You’re not going to like this.”
“I rarely call you for things I’m going to like.”
“The number is spoofed, obviously. But the image compression metadata has a device signature.”
“Which device?”
“Commercial phone. Customized operating system.”
“That narrows nothing.”
“I’m not finished.”
I waited.
“The software stack uses a secure communications package discontinued ten years ago.”
My hand tightened.
“Who used it?”
She paused.
“Us.”
Mercer heard.
He turned.
Naomi continued.
“Black Lantern devices.”
I looked toward the backyard.
“You’re sure?”
“I built the package, Claire.”
My pulse slowed.
“How many units?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Can you identify which?”
“Not remotely.”
“Who had access to retired hardware?”
Another pause.
“Quartermaster. Technical staff. Command.”
I already knew the next question.
“Who signed off on destroying the units after Lantern was closed?”
Naomi did not answer immediately.
When she did, her voice was different.
“Colonel Adrian Vale.”
I hadn’t heard that name in eleven years.
Mercer whispered, “Jesus.”
Ryan looked at us.
“Who is Adrian Vale?”
I answered without looking at him.
“My commander.”
Dad sat down.
“And?”
I stared at the message on my phone.
“The man who certified me dead.”
Mom stopped breathing.
Mercer corrected quietly.
“Not just you.”
He looked out toward the fading party.
“Vale certified the entire Black Lantern field cell dead.”
I remembered something.
The memorial.
The closed coffins.
The names.
The people who never came home.
And one man who had been nowhere near the ambush when it happened.
Adrian Vale.
I looked at my father.
“Did the man who contacted you ever say my name?”
Dad frowned.
“What?”
“When he called eleven years ago. Did he say Claire?”
He thought.
Then shook his head.
“No.”
“What did he call me?”
Dad swallowed.
“He said ‘Lantern Six.’”
Mercer and I exchanged a look.
Only Black Lantern personnel knew that designation.
Then Lauren called from the hall.
“Claire?”
I turned.
She was holding a garment bag.
“This was hanging by the front door.”
It had my name written across it.
Inside was a black military-style jacket.
Not American.
Not official.
A replica of the jackets our field team had worn.
Pinned to the chest was a handwritten note.
WELCOME HOME, SIX.
And inside the pocket was a photograph.
Five people standing beside a dusty helicopter eleven years earlier.
Four were dead.
The fifth was me.
But someone had drawn a red circle around a figure in the background.
A man I had never noticed before.
My father leaned closer.
Then whispered:
“That’s him.”
May you like
“Who?”
“The man who came to collect the file.”
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