At a New York airport, a security agent suddenly grabbed my arm and whispered, “Pretend I’m arresting you. Do not react.” I thought she was joking until her grip tightened. She pulled my daughter and me away from the gate. Twenty minutes later, the entire area exploded.

The rain began to fall in sheets as they navigated the industrial corridors of Long Island City. Hale had managed to procure an unmarked utility van from her brother’s police contacts, along with three sets of dark blue work jumpsuits.

Mila remained in the back of the van, wrapped in a blanket, holding a portable radio that was currently broadcasting news of the JFK explosion. The media was already carrying the narrative that Victor Vance had constructed: a rogue Port Authority officer working with a disgruntled former employee had attempted a devastating bombing.

"We have twenty minutes before the next shift rotation," Hale said, looking at the low-slung, concrete warehouse in front of them. The sign on the door read Metropolitan Document Storage, but Nadia knew better.

They stepped out into the rain, carrying toolboxes that held their equipment instead of wrenches.

Hale bypassed the electronic lock on the side door using a tactical bypass tool she had kept in her gear bag. The lock clicked open, and they slipped inside the quiet, climate-controlled interior. The air was hummed with the sound of thousands of servers, their green and blue lights blinking in the dark like the eyes of mechanical beasts.

"This way," Nadia said, her fingers moving quickly over her tablet as she mapped the internal network. "The main terminal is in the center of the floor. Once I plug the drive in, it will take approximately four minutes to bypass the firewalls and verify the certificates."

As they reached the central console, the overhead lights suddenly flared to life.

The security gate behind them began to descend, locking them inside the server cage.

"I expected you to go to the FBI, Nadia," a voice said over the intercom system. "But coming back to my own server room? That’s almost poetic."

It wasn't Victor’s voice. It was the voice of the man in the gray cap.

Through the glass partition of the server room, they saw him. He was standing with three armed security guards, his gray cap wet from the rain.

"My name is Miller," the man said over the speaker. "I run security for Caldera’s logistics assets. Your attorney, the one you told about the shell companies? He was the first one to sell you out. He took a half-million dollar retainer from us to keep us informed of your movements."

Nadia felt a sickening wave of betrayal wash over her. Her attorney—the man she had trusted to protect her and her child—had been the one who slid the photograph under her door.

"The FBI is already on their way here," Miller said, a cruel smile touching his lips. "We called them five minutes ago, reporting a break-in by the fugitive officer Rebecca Hale. By the time they arrive, you will both be dead, killed in a shootout with our 'unfortunate' security team who were merely defending private property."