Chapter 6 - Forty-Eight HoursI stared at my father.
Then at the black envelope.
Then back at him.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
His voice cracked.
“I expect you to hate me.”
“That part’s easy.”
Dad flinched.
For a moment, I saw him differently.
Not Colonel James Whitaker.
Not the impossible man who corrected posture at the dinner table and believed emotions were inconveniences.
Just an aging father holding a secret he had carried too long.
I didn’t let that soften me.
“Open it.”
He hesitated.
“Dad.”
He broke the seal.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
No letterhead.
No signature.
Just typed instructions.
I read them.
SUBJECT: BLACKBIRD
If subject’s operational identity becomes publicly compromised, subject must be neutralized within forty-eight hours. Failure to comply will result in cascading action against immediate family.
Below it were five names.
My mother.
Ryan.
Caroline.
Caroline’s husband.
Their oldest child.
My hands began shaking.
“How long have you had this?”
“Nine years.”
“And you said nothing.”
“What was I supposed to say?”
“You could have warned me.”
“Warned you about what? You disappeared into classified work and returned refusing to explain anything. Every time I tried to ask where you’d been, you shut down.”
“I was protecting you.”
“And I thought I was protecting you!”
We stared at each other.
Two stubborn people.
Two secrets.
Two versions of protection that had destroyed almost everything between us.
I lowered the paper.
“Did they contact you again?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
My pulse jumped.
“Before the party?”
He nodded.
“What did they say?”
“That somebody might recognize you.”
“And you still let me come?”
“I tried to tell your mother the party should be canceled.”
“You could have told me.”
“I was afraid your phones were monitored.”
“Dad, they blew up my apartment.”
His face drained.
“What?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
I believed him.
That was the problem.
I wanted him to be guilty because guilt was simple.
Innocence with terrible choices was harder.
“Who contacted you?”
“A man calling himself Mr. Gray.”
“Number?”
“Blocked.”
“Message?”
“Voice.”
“Exact words.”
Dad closed his eyes.
“He said, ‘The bird may fly tonight. Keep her wings covered.’”
I felt nausea rise.
They had predicted Cole.
Or known he would be there.
“Who invited Nathan Cole?”
Dad frowned.
“I did.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Who knew?”
“Your mother. Ryan. The event planner.”
“Anyone else?”
“My consulting office handled part of the guest list.”
There.
A route.
“Which consulting office?”
He looked embarrassed.
“Whitaker Strategic.”
I knew the company.
Everyone did.
Defense advisory work.
Four partners.
Former military officers.
One of them had appeared in Shaw’s Meridian photographs.
“Dad.”
He saw my expression.
“What?”
“Who are your partners?”
“You know them.”
“Say their names.”
“Paul Hendricks. Curtis Vale. Norman Pike.”
“And?”
A pause.
“Samuel Bishop.”
The room tilted.
I whispered, “What?”
Dad frowned.
“Samuel Bishop.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Bishop.
My instructor.
Talon.
One of the three Meridian members.
Officially dead since 2018.
“You have a partner named Samuel Bishop?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Sixty-two.”
“Former intelligence?”
“Army intelligence.”
“Scar on his right shoulder?”
Dad stared.
“How would you know that?”
I was already reaching for my phone.
I called Cole.
He answered immediately.
“Claire?”
“Where are you?”
“Two minutes from your parents’ house.”
“Don’t enter through the front.”
“Why?”
“Samuel Bishop is alive.”
Silence.
Then:
“Say again.”
“Bishop. Talon. He’s my father’s business partner.”
Dad stood.
“Claire, what are you talking about?”
Cole’s voice sharpened through the phone.
“Get your family out now.”
Too late.
The lights went out.
Every light.
House.
Garden.
Driveway.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Dad reached toward the drawer.
I grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Window.”
A soft click came from the hallway.
Not a household sound.
A suppressed weapon being checked.
I pulled Dad down behind the desk.
“Stay here.”
“You’re unarmed.”
“Not anymore.”
I opened his drawer.
Found the pistol I knew he kept there.
Old habits never die.
I checked it.
Loaded.
Safety.
Good.
A floorboard creaked outside.
One person.
Maybe two.
I moved beside the door.
The handle turned.
Slowly.
Someone entered.
I caught the wrist before the pistol cleared the frame.
Twisted.
Struck.
The weapon hit carpet.
My elbow connected with a jaw.
The attacker stumbled.
Dad surged from behind the desk and tackled him.
Not bad for sixty-eight.
I grabbed the dropped pistol.
“Hands!”
The man froze.
Emergency lights flickered on.
Dad rolled him over.
I stared.
Ryan.
My brother lay beneath him.
“What the hell?” I shouted.
Ryan shoved Dad away.
“Someone’s in the house!”
“You nearly got shot!”
“I came to warn you!”
A crash erupted downstairs.
Then Caroline screamed.
I ran.
Mom was in the hall.
“Claire!”
“Get into the study! Lock the door!”
“But—”
“Now!”
Ryan followed me.
We reached the staircase.
Two masked men were entering through the kitchen.
Cole’s voice thundered from somewhere outside.
“Security team! Drop weapons!”
The intruders scattered.
One moved toward the patio.
The other ran upstairs.
Toward Caroline’s room.
Ryan and I followed.
He reached the landing first.
The attacker spun.
Ryan slammed into him before he could aim.
They crashed through a side table.
I kicked the gun away.
The masked man struck Ryan twice.
I grabbed the attacker’s jacket and drove him into the wall.
He reached for a knife.
Bad choice.
I trapped his wrist.
Twisted.
The joint broke with a sound Ryan would probably remember forever.
The knife dropped.
I pushed the man face-down and held the gun against his back.
“Don’t move.”
Ryan stared at me.
Not with disbelief anymore.
With recognition.
Like he finally understood that the sister he remembered had never actually existed.
Cole appeared at the end of the hallway.
“Clear downstairs.”
I nodded toward the attacker.
“This one’s alive.”
Cole crouched.
Pulled away the mask.
My father emerged behind him.
Then stopped.
His face went white.
“Oh my God.”
I looked at him.
“You know him?”
Dad whispered the answer.
“Curtis Vale.”
One of his business partners.
Vale smiled through blood.
“Hello, James.”
My father seemed to age ten years in one second.
“Why?”
Vale laughed.
“Because you failed.”
Dad looked confused.
Vale turned toward me.
His smile widened.
“And because she was never supposed to survive Harrow.”
I crouched beside him.
“Where is Bishop?”
Vale said nothing.
I pressed his broken wrist lightly.
He screamed.
Ryan stared.
“Claire.”
“I didn’t break it.”
“You’re pressing it.”
“Yes.”
Vale cursed.
“Where is Bishop?”
He laughed again.
“You think Samuel Bishop is running Meridian?”
“Isn’t he?”
Vale looked almost delighted.
“No.”
My chest tightened.
“Who is?”
His eyes shifted toward Ryan.
Just for an instant.
But I saw it.
So did Cole.
Ryan frowned.
“What?”
Vale began laughing harder.
“This family.”
My father stepped forward.
“What are you saying?”
Vale looked at him.
“You still don’t understand, James?”
Then he stared directly at Ryan.
“The Whitakers were never targets.”
His smile turned ugly.
“You were the insurance policy.”
Ryan’s face emptied.
Vale spoke one final sentence before Cole’s men dragged him away.
“Ask your golden boy what happened in Kandahar.”
I turned slowly toward my brother.
May you like
Ryan stopped breathing.
And for the first time that night, I knew with absolute certainty that he was hiding something from me.
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