Someone built a false paper trail—just in case someone from Chase went looking deeper. Daniel had been listed as “useful intelligence” in charting nuclear activity in the Sahel. That was the justification for letting him walk freely on a DoD leash.
Every authorization attached to Daniel’s quiet movement inside Africa bore the same tell: Military access fed through AFRICOM…and always logged under the credentials of General Barrett Haines.
Ford narrowed his eyes. He knew Barrett Haines. He cross-checked what was supposed to be a DoD transfer against the DoD system, and Haines’ locations against the IP addresses.
The DoD system showed nothing. The men who sent three real Air Force personnel to their death did not exist.
Haines was nowhere near the terminals listed on any of those dates. He was present in Stuttgart, Germany, where the command was supposed to be. He attended briefings with NATO liaisons; he was not in the field. He was active, in uniform,not retired—still a four-star general, still influential, and still in command of AFRICOM.
But someone had used his credentials like a goddamn skeleton key. And Chase had bought it.
Ford's fingers hovered over the keys. They hadn’t just missed this. They’d believed the story. Because it was dressed up in everything that looked official: duty, compromise, sanctioned gray ops. He felt his gut begin to rip. None of it tracked.
Daniel Krueger had a long list of evil activities. He intimidated, injured and possibly raped Air Force cadets; he committed similar activities when moved to the Army. And, finally, he murdered a warrant officer. He’d sabotaged a military aircraft and nearly killed Shannon. After that, he should have been locked in federal detention before the year was out.
Instead?
He ended up on military manifests, then on agency watchlists, then in Africa, at the exact time the nuclear material began moving. And someone made it all look routine.
Ford sat back. Every instinct in him said this wasn’t just about Daniel. He rolled his neck, rubbed his eyes and continued looking.
DANTE’S SUITE
The lights were low. Shannon rested in the recliner, a blanket wrapped around her legs, wearing padded slipper socks.
Dante’s voice was barely there. “Still awake?”
She looked over. He was turned toward her, eyes open. “I never sleep when I should.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Do you remember… the morning you woke up after the crash?”
Her throat tightened. “You were there.”
“I wasn’t able to rescue you. I just stayed.”
She stood and crossed to the bed without thinking, sitting carefully on the edge. “I remember you telling me to breathe. You kept saying it like it was a checklist item.”
He smiled faintly. “It was.” He hesitated, then spoke again—quieter. “Lie down.” He patted the bed. “Stay with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his—just like she did in the hospital.
“Beside me.”
She looked at him. “I don’t want to disturb you.”
“You won’t,” he said. “I won’t sleep otherwise.”
She lifted the covers and eased herself carefully onto the bed beside him, mindful of lines and dressings. He shifted just enough to make room. Her head found his shoulder. His arm rested loosely around her back.
Neither of them spoke again. They both slept.
The room was still.The hiss of oxygen and the low rumble of distant traffic filled the silence. Dante stirred.
His neck ached, his abdomen pulled with the weight of the peritoneal line, and his mouth felt dry—but when his eyes opened, what caught his attention wasn’t the discomfort. It was the two figures sitting quietly in the corner.
Shannon, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, half asleep but upright. And beside her —Miriam Olivetti, in slate-gray slacks, a black cardigan over a shell blouse, hair up, unreadable expression resting behind fierce but kind eyes. Her ID badge still hung from a retractable clip at her waist: Chase Legal San Diego, Director.
He blinked once. “Mama?”
