Page 118 of Broken Oath

No running lights.

No transponders.

No identification.

Maverick leaned closer.

"Coast Guard?"

"No."

"Navy?"

Fathom shook his head.

The answer settled heavily into the silence.

"Private military."

Nobody spoke.

Mercenaries.

Professionals.

The kind of men hired to solve problems quietly.

The kind who never asked questions.

The kind who left bodies behind.

Maverick's voice came across the radio.

"You think they know we're coming?"

Nobody answered.

Because everybody was thinking about the mountain.

Then a new voice entered the channel.

Female.

Calm.

Controlled.

Professional.

"Yes."

The radio went silent.

Completely silent.

Rook's pulse kicked hard.

That voice.