PART 2 — THE MAN WHO GRABBED THE WRONG WOMAN
“Chief Vance.”
The name cut through the VIP lounge like a blade.
For a fraction of a second, no one moved.
The Navy SEAL’s fist was still tangled in the front of my gray hoodie.
My shoulder was pressed against the marble counter.
Coffee dripped from the edge beside my hand, falling in slow brown drops onto the floor.
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Then the man holding me looked toward the entrance.
His face changed.
Commander Daniel Mercer stood just inside the glass doors, dressed in a dark service uniform beneath a rain-damp overcoat.
Two officers followed him, each carrying sealed black transport folders.
Mercer’s eyes moved from my face to the SEAL’s hand.
His expression became frighteningly calm.
“Petty Officer Cole,” he said, “take your hand off Chief Vance.”
Cole released me.
Immediately.
He stepped backward so quickly that his tactical bag struck a chair.
“Sir, I—”
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“Did I ask you to explain?”
“No, sir.”
“Then don’t.”
The lounge was completely silent now.
The young airman beside the snack counter stared at Cole as though he had just watched someone voluntarily step in front of a moving train.
