I TOOK A BULLET meant for a young Marine and lost my leg saving him. The next day his whole battalion showed up at my house. Marines don't move like that for a thank-you. What were they carrying?

The Granby Street financial district in downtown Norfolk was slick with rain when our three-vehicle convoy pulled up to the curb. The sky had turned the color of bruised slate, matching the dark mood that settled over us.

I rode in the front passenger seat of Captain Vance's civilian SUV, my prosthetic leg detached and resting on the floorboard behind me. Beside us sat Staff Sergeant Raymond Cruz, a broad-shouldered Marine with two Purple Hearts who had taken charge of security.

"NCIS has two surveillance vehicles parked across the street," Cruz reported, looking through a pair of compact binoculars. "Black Ford Explorers with government plates. They're monitoring the bank's front entrance."

"They know about the key," I said, gripping the brass key inside my jacket pocket. "Hayes must have realized his locker was compromised before he fled."

"They can monitor all they want," Captain Vance said calmly, checking the side mirror. "They don't have a signed search warrant for Box 412 yet because Eleanor Vance, my sister and senior partner at Vance & Associates, filed an emergency injunction at the federal courthouse twenty minutes ago."

As if on cue, a sleek black town car pulled into the loading zone behind us. Out stepped Eleanor Vance, wearing a sharp charcoal wool coat, carrying a leather briefcase that looked as solid as an anvil.

"Sarah," Eleanor said, opening the SUV's rear door and stepping inside. "The federal judge signed the protective order. The contents of Box 412 are officially under the protection of a federal court order pending a special counsel investigation. If NCIS touches you or that box inside that vault, they're in direct violation of a federal mandate."

"Will that stop them?" I asked.

"It will stop the ones who care about their pensions," Eleanor said with a cold, razor-thin smile. "The ones who don't... well, that's why my brother brought forty Marines."

We moved into the bank in a tight formation. Four Marines in civilian clothes walked ahead of my wheelchair, while Captain Vance pushed me down the polished marble aisle toward the vault entrance.

The branch manager, a pale man named Mr. Henderson, looked up from his desk, his eyes darting nervously toward two men in dark suits sitting near the fountain. The two NCIS agents stood up immediately, their hands resting near their belts.

"Mrs. Vance," Henderson stammered, stepping out to meet us. "We... we received a federal notice regarding Box 412."

"Then you know I am here to oversee my client, Petty Officer Sarah Miller, as she exercises her lawful right of access," Eleanor said, pulling a stamped court document from her briefcase and slapping it onto his desk.

The lead NCIS agent, a tall man with a scarred jaw named Agent Miller, stepped forward, pulling a gold badge from his jacket. "This is an active national security investigation, counselor. That box contains stolen military intelligence."

"That box contains evidence of a military cover-up regarding an attempted murder on an active-duty Navy corpsman," I spat out, turning my wheelchair around to face him directly. "And unless you have a warrant signed by a Supreme Court Justice that overrides Judge Sterling's federal injunction, Agent Miller, you're going to step out of my way."

Miller's eyes narrowed, his gaze falling upon the empty left pant leg of my trousers, tucked neatly under my knee. A flash of hesitation crossed his face—the momentary shame of a man realizing he was blocking a wounded veteran.

"Ten minutes, Miller," Eleanor said, her voice like steel. "Touch that door and I'll have you in contempt of federal court before the sun sets."

Henderson led us down the heavy spiral staircase into the vault. The thick steel door stood open, revealing rows of gleaming brass deposit boxes.

I inserted the brass key into Box 412. Henderson inserted his master key.

With a heavy mechanical click, the box slid free.

Inside lay three black high-speed drive units, a sealed manila envelope marked APEX GLOBAL / CONTRACT 884, and a small leather-bound notebook belonging to my former ex-husband, Lieutenant Commander David Vance—a man who had died in a suspicious training accident six years ago.

My breath hitched in my throat as I opened the notebook.

Written on the first page in David's clear handwriting were four names: 1. Senior Chief Ronald Hayes

2. Colonel Arthur Vance (Ret.)

3. Director Marcus Sterling (Apex Global)