International influence.
Yet they were the ones who paid for my academy tuition.
The ones who covered my medical bills without hesitation.
The ones who hired private tutors to train me in firearms, surveillance, hand-to-hand combat, interrogation resistance, digital forensics, undercover tradecraft.
They trained me like one of their own operatives.
Even though I now wore a badge.
They sponsored the very woman who was sworn to investigate men like them.
They never forced loyalty.
Never demanded allegiance. Never asked me to choose sides.
They simply said:
“Do what you need to do, Elena. We’ll be here when it’s over.”
That freedom — that trust — meant more than control ever could.
Today was supposed to be the first real step toward closure.
Not emotional closure. Not healing.
Operational closure.
Evidence. Justice. Accountability.
Special Agent in Charge Vincent Reyes stood at the head of the conference table.
Mid-fifties.
Salt-and-pepper hair cropped short.
Sharp eyes that scanned the room like nothing escaped them.
He’d been running through the standard briefing for nearly forty minutes — active threats, cartel movements, cybercrime suspects — when he finally picked up the remote control.
He turned toward the wall-mounted screen.
The projector clicked.
The display flickered.
And then—
Ruslan Baranov’s face filled the screen.
My breath caught instantly.
Like my lungs had recognized danger before my mind did.
The photograph was recent.
Captured in California.
