My hands did not shake.
Admiral Mercer’s breath did not hitch.
Through the quiet room, as the distant chime of the naval chapel clock began to strike midnight across the frozen river…
I slowly, deliberately looked down at the signature at the bottom of the classified transmission slip:
A name that was currently the Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court.
Brenda Vance’s biological older brother.
Mark’s uncle.
The supreme architect of the Vance-Sterling conspiracy.
**Chief Justice Arthur Sterling-Vance**.
The man who had spent forty years pretending he was an impartial constitutional jurist while constructing an offshore syndicate to seize the strategic defense bedrock of North America.
A slow, radiant, terrifying smile broke across Colonel Elena Eleanor Mercer’s face—a smile that held zero fear, zero debts, zero lies, and zero graves.
I reached out with my right hand.
I picked up the four-inch antique solid-titanium transponder key from the table.
