The hospital called and said a little boy had listed me as his emergency contact. I laughed nervously and said, “That’s impossible

The night was pitch black, heavy with a thick coastal fog that swept in from the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The abandoned naval coaling station at Port Townsend stood like a jagged rust-covered monolith against the churning gray ocean.

According to the plan I had crafted, I sent an encrypted message directly to Sterling’s private satellite phone, offering to trade the physical decryption key in exchange for full immunity and ten million dollars transferred to a Swiss account.

Standing on the rotting wooden pier, wrapped in a dark oilskin coat, I waited alone in the mist. The cold wind whipped salt spray against my face, but inside, my pulse was steady, driven by a fierce, quiet clarity.

From the shadow of the abandoned warehouses, three black luxury SUVs glided to a silent halt. Their headlights cut long, ghostly beams through the fog.

Deputy Director Sterling stepped out of the lead vehicle, flanked by four heavily armed private mercenaries. He wore a tailored coat and a smug, patronizing smile that made my blood run cold.

"Miss Nora," Sterling said, his voice dripping with condescension as he walked toward me, his hand resting casually inside his pocket. "I must admit, your tenacity is impressive for a simple data analyst. You've given my people a tremendous amount of trouble."

"Where is the money, Sterling?" I demanded, holding up a small, glowing blue flash drive between my index and middle finger. "And where are my clean transit papers?"

Sterling laughed—a dry, soulless sound that was swallowed by the roaring waves below the pier. "Did you really think you were going to walk away from this, little girl? There are no papers. There is no money. There is only a deep ocean and a very heavy pair of concrete boots."

He pulled a suppressed pistol from his coat, raising the barrel directly toward my chest.