Chapter 1 - The Woman at the Coffee Counter
The Navy SEAL grabbed my shirt and snarled:
“Authorized personnel only.”
Colonel Nathan Mercer entered carrying a sealed black deployment folder.
A red number was stamped across the corner:
“17.”
Mercer looked at the man holding me.
Then he said one word.
“Commander.”
For half a second, nobody breathed.
The Navy SEAL’s fist was still twisted into the front of my white blouse.
His knuckles pressed against my collarbone.
His face was less than a foot from mine, and the amused little smile he had worn when he shoved me against the marble counter disappeared so quickly it was almost satisfying.
Almost.
I had experienced more frightening things than an angry man in an airport lounge.
Seventeen years of covert operations had taught me what fear actually looked like.
It looked like a dark hallway in Kandahar when the lights suddenly went out.
It looked like the blinking red timer of an improvised explosive device.
It looked like hearing footsteps on the other side of a steel door when your weapon had jammed.
This?
This was embarrassment waiting to happen.
His.
Not mine.
“Let her go,” Colonel Mercer said.
The SEAL slowly opened his hand.
My blouse fell back into place.
I stepped away from the counter.
Nobody spoke.
Four uniformed servicemen stood near the coffee station behind us. A few seconds earlier, two of them had looked entertained. Now they stared at me like they had just watched someone kick a sleeping lion.
I straightened my collar.
The blond SEAL took a step backward.
“Sir,” he began.
Mercer’s voice hardened.
“Chief Petty Officer Cole Barrett.”
That gave me his name.
Barrett looked at Mercer.
“Yes, sir.”
“You were ordered to report to Joint Operations Command at fourteen hundred today.”
Barrett glanced at me.
Something unpleasant began connecting behind his eyes.
Mercer held up the black folder.
“You might want to pay particularly close attention to page one.”
I reached for the coffee I had abandoned on the marble counter before Barrett decided I was an intruder.
It was cold.
That irritated me more than Barrett had.
I took one sip anyway.
Barrett’s eyes stayed on me.
“Colonel,” he said carefully, “who is she?”
Mercer looked genuinely amazed.
“You assaulted someone without knowing who she was?”
Barrett stiffened.
“I believed she was an unauthorized civilian.”
“You believed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Based on what?”
Barrett hesitated.
My civilian clothes, obviously.
White blouse.
Dark red pencil skirt.
Low heels.
No uniform.
No visible credentials.
No weapon.
Nothing about me advertised seventeen years spent working inside programs most people would never know existed.
That was intentional.
There was a reason covert operators didn’t walk through airports wearing signs that said SECRET GOVERNMENT ASSET.
Barrett finally said, “She was inside a restricted military lounge.”
“So were you,” I said.
His attention snapped back to me.
“And unlike you,” I continued, “I didn’t grab anyone.”
One of the younger soldiers in the background coughed into his fist, unsuccessfully hiding what might have been a laugh.
Barrett’s jaw tightened.
“I asked you for identification.”
“You demanded identification.”
“You refused.”
“I asked why you needed it.”
“You were being difficult.”
“No,” I said. “I was drinking coffee.”
Mercer stepped between us before Barrett could answer.
“Commander Evelyn Cross,” he said.
Barrett stared.
The name meant something.
Most civilians would never have heard it.
Special operations personnel sometimes did.
Not because my photograph appeared in newspapers.
It didn’t.
Not because I gave interviews.
I never had.
But people talked.
They told stories about operations whose official reports contained so many black rectangles that half the page looked burned.
Some of those stories were exaggerated.
Some weren’t.
Barrett looked at Mercer again.
“The Evelyn Cross?”
I hated when people said it like that.
“There’s only one on your command roster,” Mercer replied.
Barrett’s face changed.
He looked at me.
Then at the black deployment folder.
Then back at me.
“You’re commanding Task Group Sentinel?”
“Yes,” I said.
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Mercer handed him the folder.
Barrett looked down at the first page.
I watched his eyes move across the assignment order.
Chief Petty Officer Cole Barrett.
Naval Special Warfare.
Temporary attachment.
Joint Operations Task Group Sentinel.
Commanding Officer: Commander Evelyn Cross.
The color drained from his face.
I picked up my handbag from the counter.
“We report at fourteen hundred,” I said.
Barrett looked up.
“Commander, I—”
“Save it.”
“I should explain.”
“You already did.”
His brows pulled together.
“When?”
“When you decided a woman in civilian clothes needed to prove she belonged somewhere before you did.”
Barrett flushed.
“That wasn’t—”
“Fourteen hundred, Chief.”
I walked past him.
Mercer followed me toward the lounge exit.
Behind us, nobody said a word.
The glass doors opened onto the terminal corridor.
Travelers moved past with carry-ons and paper coffee cups, completely unaware that a Navy SEAL had just discovered the worst possible way to meet his new commanding officer.
Mercer caught up beside me.
“You’re taking that remarkably well.”
“I’ve had worse Monday mornings.”
“He put his hands on you.”
“I noticed.”
“You want me to remove him from Sentinel?”
I stopped.
Mercer stopped too.
Through the glass wall, I could see Barrett still standing beside the counter holding the folder.
He looked furious.
But not at me.
At himself.
That mattered.
“Why was he selected?” I asked.
“Barrett?”
“Yes.”
Mercer adjusted his glasses.
“Two Silver Stars. Four deployments with DEVGRU support elements. Exceptional breacher. Excellent tactical judgment under fire.”
“Temper?”
“Apparently.”
“Disciplinary history?”
“A few reprimands.”
“For?”
“Confrontations. Mostly insubordination.”
“And yet someone recommended him for Sentinel.”
Mercer’s expression became uncomfortable.
I knew that look.
“What?”
“There’s something about his assignment I was going to tell you after you arrived.”
I waited.
Mercer glanced toward the crowded terminal.
“Barrett wasn’t on the original roster.”
That interested me.
“Who added him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You signed the orders.”
“I approved the amended roster after it arrived from Washington.”
“Whose authorization?”
“That’s the problem.”
He opened the leather case under his arm and pulled out a photocopy.
A handwritten authorization code appeared at the bottom.
I recognized the format immediately.
Executive Special Access.
Very few people could issue it.
“Someone high up wanted Barrett on my team,” I said.
“Very high.”
“Why?”
Mercer lowered his voice.
“We don’t know.”
I looked through the lounge glass again.
Barrett had finally moved.
He was reading the deployment packet.
One page.
Then another.
His expression gradually changed from humiliation to concentration.
Professional now.
Whatever his personality problems, Mercer had been right about one thing.
The man was experienced.
And somebody with powerful authority had deliberately placed him under me.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown secure number.
I opened the encrypted message.
Three words appeared.
KEEP BARRETT CLOSE.
I read them twice.
Mercer saw my expression.
“What is it?”
I showed him.
He frowned.
“No sender?”
“None.”
“That network shouldn’t accept anonymous traffic.”
“It doesn’t.”
He took the phone.
The message vanished.
Self-deleting.
Mercer looked at me.
“Evelyn.”
“I know.”
Our operation hadn’t even begun, and someone was already inside our secure communications.
I looked back toward the lounge.
Barrett was gone.
“Where did he go?”
Mercer turned.
The place beside the coffee counter was empty.
Then another message appeared.
This one was different.
A photograph.
Taken perhaps thirty seconds earlier.
It showed me standing beside Mercer in the airport corridor.
The photographer had been close.
Very close.
Under the photograph were six words.
BARRETT IS NOT YOUR REAL PROBLEM.
Mercer looked over my shoulder.
His face tightened.
I zoomed in on the reflection in the glass behind us.
There was someone standing there.
Watching.
I turned around.
The corridor was crowded.
Nobody obvious.
Then Mercer’s phone rang.
He answered.
“Mercer.”
His expression changed.
“What?”
He listened.
“How long ago?”
Silence.
Then he lowered the phone slowly.
“What happened?” I asked.
He looked straight at me.
“Someone accessed Sentinel headquarters ten minutes ago.”
“That’s impossible.”
“The security system logged one credential.”
“Whose?”
Mercer swallowed.
“Yours.”
I had been inside Sea-Tac for nearly an hour.
Sentinel headquarters was eighteen miles away.
Someone had cloned my clearance.
And they had used it before I even met my team.
Mercer opened the security application.
One photograph had been captured when the secure door opened.
The image loaded slowly.
A man walked through the door carrying a black case.
His face was turned away.
But on his right wrist was a military watch.
The exact model Cole Barrett had been wearing.
I stared at the screen.
Then the image sharpened.
May you like
The man turned just enough for the camera to catch his profile.
It was Barrett.
