HE SH.OT ME AT MY OWN MEDAL CEREMONY—THEN STILL CLAIMED I WAS ‘UNSTABLE.’”

Forty-eight hours later, the safehouse on John’s Island smelled of gun oil, stale coffee, and cold rain.

The pain in my hip had settled into a dull, thumping agony that spiked into white-hot lightning whenever I leaned too hard on the tactical forearm crutch Luke had scavenged from the base physical therapy clinic. I had stripped off the hospital gown, replacing it with black cargo pants, a compression wrap around my pelvis, and an oversized olive-drab field jacket that concealed the bulge of the Sig Sauer P320 Luke had slid across the kitchen table that morning.

"You shouldn't even be standing," Luke said, placing a steaming mug of black coffee in front of me.

"Pain is just information," I quoted, repeating the old combat survival mantra we’d drilled into our heads in survival school. "Right now, the information says I have twenty-four hours before Judge Cauthen’s court convenes."

Spread across the rough pine table were three satellite maps of Whispering Pines. Luke had pulled them from the National Reconnaissance Office via his OSI clearance.

"The perimeter is bad," Luke said, tapping a red grease pencil against the southern edge of the property. "Arthur’s added eight-foot chain-link topped with razor wire along the entire marsh boundary since you left. He’s got four private security guards on shift twenty-four hours a day. They carry twelve-gauge shotguns and Glock 17s. All ex-cops from the county."

"They’re mercenaries," I said, studying the terrain. "They’re not soldiers. They don't watch the dead space in the creek beds when the tide goes out."

"And Nora?" Luke asked.

"Arthur moved her back to the main house yesterday afternoon," I said, tapping the satellite photo of the two-story brick mansion. "His lawyers realized that keeping her in a commercial psychiatric clinic during the press scrutiny looked suspicious. He’s got her under 'home medical supervision.' Which means he’s got her locked in the third-floor nursery with barred windows and a guard at the foot of the stairs."

Suddenly, Luke’s encrypted satellite phone on the table buzzed violently.

Luke hit the speaker button. "Evans."

"Major, we have a problem," General Holloway’s voice cut through the speaker, tight and strained. "Arthur just made his move. He didn't wait for Friday."

My stomach dropped into a void. "General, what did he do?"

"He filed an emergency ex parte motion with Judge Cauthen twenty minutes ago," Holloway reported. "He claimed that Captain Vance had been 'kidnapped' from the base hospital by rogue military elements to avoid the jurisdiction of the civil courts. Cauthen signed an immediate writ of assistance. He’s declared Maya a fugitive ward of the state. The Berkeley County Sheriff has issued an all-points bulletin. They’re authorizing local law enforcement to use 'any force necessary' to take her into protective custody."

"They’re going to shoot me on sight," I said, the cold reality settling in. "They’ll claim I resisted, claim I was having an armed PTSD flashback, and put three rounds in my chest. Then Arthur’s story is clean."

"There’s more," Holloway said, his voice heavy with fury. "Arthur just posted a video on social media. It’s gone viral. Over two million views in two hours. He’s sitting on his front porch at Whispering Pines, weeping, holding up your mother’s Bible. He’s invited the press and the public to an 'open prayer vigil' at the gates of Whispering Pines at six o'clock tonight to pray for your safe return."

"He’s creating a civilian buffer," Luke snarled. "If we move on the estate, we’ll be walking into a wall of television cameras and church groups. If the military tries to intervene, it looks like an armed federal invasion of a peaceful vigil."

"It’s a masterstroke," I admitted, staring at the map. "He’s brilliant at using the mob to hide his rot."

"So what do we do, Maya?" Luke asked, looking at me. "Holloway can't send Security Forces out to John’s Island to protect you. The moment active-duty troops engage county deputies on civilian soil, the Posse Comitatus Act kicks in. Arthur’s lawyers will have Holloway removed from command by midnight."

I stood up, the titanium pins in my hip groaning against the bone, and leaned both hands against the edge of the map.

"He wants a spectacle," I whispered, my mind racing through twelve years of tactical planning, finding the narrow lane through the fire. "He thinks because I’m a soldier, I’m going to come in through the wire with guns blazing like an idiot. He thinks I’m the broken, hysterical girl he spent years manufacturing in his little black ledgers."

I looked up at Luke.

"He invited the public, didn't he?"

Luke blinked. "Maya... what are you thinking?"

"He told the world he wants his daughter back," I said, a slow, predatory calm washing over the panic. "He told the press he’s waiting with open arms to forgive me and save me. So let’s give him what he asked for. Right in the middle of his prayer vigil. Right in front of every television camera in South Carolina."

"You’ll be walking into the mouth of the beast," Luke warned. "The sheriff’s deputies will be there. The moment you step out of the shadows, they’ll try to cuff you."

"They can try," I said, pulling the Sig Sauer from the table, checking the chamber, and seating the magazine with a sharp, metallic slap. "But they’re forgetting one thing."

"What’s that?"