Chapter 7 - The Golden Child’s SecretRyan refused to talk until sunrise.
By then, Mom had taken Caroline and the children to a secure location.
Dad remained in his study, staring at nothing.
Cole’s people processed the house.
I sat opposite my brother at the kitchen table where we had eaten pancakes as children.
His hands were wrapped around untouched coffee.
“Tell me about Kandahar.”
Ryan stared into the cup.
“It was nothing.”
“Vale knew.”
“He could have guessed.”
“Ryan.”
His jaw tightened.
“I can’t discuss classified operations.”
I almost laughed.
“You’re using classification with me?”
His eyes lifted.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then tell me.”
Cole leaned against the counter.
Ryan looked at him.
“Sir—”
“You heard your sister.”
That surprised him.
Probably surprised me too.
Ryan swallowed.
“Six months ago, my unit was tasked with a raid outside Kandahar.”
“Target?”
“Financial facilitator.”
“Name?”
“Farid Nasim.”
I knew the name.
Not personally.
From old reports.
“He worked with Meridian.”
Ryan’s face changed.
“You know him?”
“Knew of him.”
“He was supposed to be dead.”
“So was I.”
Nobody smiled.
Ryan continued.
“We hit the compound. Nasim wasn’t there.”
“What was?”
“A server room.”
Cole frowned.
“That wasn’t in the after-action report.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because my commanding officer told us the site was empty.”
My instincts sharpened.
“Who?”
Ryan hesitated.
“General Mark Halpern.”
Cole muttered a curse.
I knew the name.
Everyone in defense circles did.
Three stars.
Special Operations Command.
Potential future four-star.
“What was on the servers?”
Ryan looked at me.
“I copied some of it.”
Cole straightened.
“You what?”
“I knew something was wrong. Halpern wanted everything destroyed.”
“That was a direct order.”
“Yes.”
“And you ignored it?”
Ryan gave a humorless smile.
“Maybe I’m more like Claire than everyone thought.”
That hurt in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
“What did you copy?”
“Payment records. Names. Logistics schedules.”
“Where is the copy?”
He stared at the coffee.
“Somewhere safe.”
Cole pushed off the counter.
“Captain, you’re going to retrieve it.”
Ryan shook his head.
“No.”
Cole’s voice hardened.
“That wasn’t a request.”
“I don’t know who I can trust.”
“You can trust me.”
Ryan looked at me.
“Can I?”
I didn’t answer quickly enough.
His face tightened.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Ryan.”
“No. All night everybody has been talking about secret programs and dead handlers and people inside the government. Now you want me to hand over the only thing keeping me alive?”
I leaned forward.
“You didn’t tell anyone you had it.”
“One person.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
He looked toward our father’s study.
“Dad.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to forget what I saw.”
Dad appeared in the doorway.
We hadn’t heard him approach.
Ryan stood.
“You said it was probably an accounting mistake.”
Dad looked exhausted.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
Dad came into the kitchen.
“Bishop.”
I stared.
“You knew Bishop was involved.”
“I suspected.”
“Since when?”
“Since Ryan showed me the records.”
I stood too.
“This family is unbelievable.”
“Claire—”
“No. Everybody’s protecting everybody by lying to everybody, and somehow you’re all surprised when people start shooting.”
Dad sat down heavily.
Ryan turned toward him.
“You knew?”
“I recognized one of the shell companies.”
“From your consulting work?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
Dad looked at me.
“Northstar Development.”
David had mentioned it.
One of Meridian’s channels.
Dad continued.
“Bishop introduced the company to Whitaker Strategic years ago. We consulted on regional security projects.”
“How much money?”
“Millions.”
“Did you know where it came from?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
His expression hardened.
“Yes.”
I believed him.
Again.
I hated how often that kept happening.
Ryan exhaled.
“So Bishop used Dad’s firm?”
“Possibly.”
Cole spoke.
“Or your father was useful camouflage.”
Dad looked insulted.
“That’s not better.”
“No,” Cole said. “It isn’t.”
Ryan rubbed his face.
“The drive is inside a locker.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Union Station.”
Cole frowned.
“You stored classified material in a public locker?”
“I stored evidence of a criminal conspiracy.”
“Still classified.”
“Arrest me later.”
I almost smiled.
There was my brother.
Not the golden child.
Not Captain Whitaker.
The kid who once stole Dad’s car at seventeen and returned it with three traffic tickets.
We left forty minutes later.
Cole drove.
I sat beside him.
Ryan sat in the rear.
Nobody mentioned the fact that he was still technically my baby brother.
Union Station was crowded.
Good.
And bad.
Crowds create cover.
They also create collateral damage.
Ryan led us toward the lower concourse.
Locker 247.
He entered a code.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
His face changed.
“Someone reset it.”
Cole scanned the corridor.
“How many people knew?”
“Nobody.”
I looked at the locker seam.
Fresh scratch marks.
“Someone opened it.”
Ryan turned pale.
“That’s impossible.”
A woman twenty feet away dropped her shopping bag.
Or appeared to.
Her eyes met mine.
Wrong.
She wasn’t surprised.
She was signaling.
“Move,” I said.
The explosion wasn’t large.
A flash charge.
Enough to blind and panic.
People screamed.
Smoke filled the corridor.
I grabbed Ryan and pulled him behind a pillar.
Cole drew his weapon.
“Claire!”
“I’m good!”
Footsteps rushed past.
The woman.
I followed.
She ran up the escalator.
I took the stairs.
By the time she reached the street, I was six feet behind her.
She turned.
Knife.
I blocked the first strike.
Second came low.
Fast.
Professional.
I trapped her arm.
She head-butted me.
Pain exploded across my face.
Good training.
She broke free.
Ran toward Columbus Circle.
A black motorcycle waited.
I lunged.
Caught her jacket.
We both crashed onto the pavement.
The motorcycle sped away without her.
She rolled on top of me and pressed the knife toward my throat.
I caught her wrist with both hands.
She was strong.
Stronger than expected.
The blade came closer.
Then somebody kicked her sideways.
Ryan.
She hit the pavement.
Cole arrived seconds later.
Gun raised.
“Don’t move.”
The woman laughed.
Blood ran from her lip.
“Captain Whitaker.”
Ryan froze.
“You know me?”
“Everybody knows the prince.”
I pulled her sleeve back.
Broken wings.
Five numbers.
Meridian.
“Who sent you?” I asked.
She smiled.
“You still ask the wrong questions, Blackbird.”
“What’s the right one?”
She looked at Ryan.
“Ask him why General Halpern personally selected him for Kandahar.”
Ryan frowned.
“What?”
Her smile widened.
“Meridian didn’t stumble onto your family.”
She looked at me.
“It built your family.”
Cole stepped closer.
“Meaning?”
The woman laughed.
“Colonel Whitaker’s career.”
My father.
“Ryan’s appointments.”
My brother.
“Caroline’s husband’s defense contracts.”
My sister.
Then she looked directly at me.
“And you.”
My blood cooled.
“What about me?”
“You think Talon recruited you because you were special?”
She leaned closer.
“No, Claire.”
Her voice became almost gentle.
“They recruited you because of your father.”
Before I could ask another question, her jaw moved.
Cole reacted instantly.
“Stop!”
Too late.
She bit something hidden between her teeth.
Within seconds her body convulsed.
Ryan stepped backward.
“What the hell?”
Cole crouched beside her.
“Cyanide or equivalent.”
I stared down at the dead woman.
Then at the tattoo on her arm.
For eleven years, I had thought Talon discovered me because I was good at languages, patterns, people.
Because I earned my place.
Because at least one thing in my life had belonged to me.
Now Meridian was taking even that.
Ryan touched my shoulder.
I shrugged him off.
Not because I was angry with him.
Because suddenly I didn’t know what was real.
Cole’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Then stared at me.
“What now?” I asked.
“David Mercer is missing.”
My stomach tightened.
“From where?”
“The secure facility.”
“That’s impossible.”
“He had help.”
“From whom?”
Cole’s expression darkened.
“Deputy Director Shaw.”
I stared.
“She took him?”
“Security footage shows them leaving together.”
“When?”
“Twenty-three minutes ago.”
Ryan looked between us.
“So Shaw is Meridian?”
“Maybe,” Cole said.
My phone buzzed.
A message.
From David.
I opened it.
Claire, trust no agency. Trust no uniform.
Then another.
Bishop isn’t the architect. Shaw isn’t either.
A third appeared.
This one contained a photograph.
My father, twenty-five years younger.
Standing beside Samuel Bishop.
And a third man.
A man whose face I recognized immediately.
General Mark Halpern.
Ryan’s commander.
May you like
Under the photograph David had written:
ASK YOUR FATHER ABOUT PROJECT ORPHEUS.
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