Florida

Sarah stood in the hallway, the cool air from the air conditioning chilling the sweat on her neck. The man in the grey suit—the accountant, the fixer, the executioner—didn't raise his voice. He didn't even raise the gun. He just held it at his side, as casual as a briefcase.

"He's not here," Sarah said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking in her veins. "The Vice President is in D.C."

"Technology makes the world very small, Miss Jenkins," the man said. He gestured with his free hand. "Please. The study."

Sarah glanced back at the guest room door. Martha was still inside, clutching the flash drive. If this man found her...

"Leave her out of this," Sarah said.

"Leave who out?" the man asked, his expression blank. "Dr. Thorne lived alone. A tragic suicide. The stress of the investigation was too much for him."

He stepped over Thorne's body as if it were a rug.

"Walk," he said.

Sarah walked. She moved into the study, a mahogany-paneled room that smelled of cigars and leather. On the desk, a laptop was open. A video call was active.

Richard Caldwell’s face filled the screen. He was sitting in the Oval Office, or a very good replica of it. The flag behind him was draped perfectly. His smile was fatherly, benevolent.

"Sarah," he said. "I'm glad we could finally connect."

"You killed him," Sarah said, staring at the screen. "You killed Thorne."

"I cleaned up a mess," Caldwell said. "Thorne was a liability. He was old, sentimental, and prone to making deals with terrorists."

"I'm not a terrorist," Sarah said. "I'm a lawyer."

"You're a woman who stole my property," Caldwell said. "And I want it back."

"Caleb is dead," Sarah said. "You killed him too."

"Caleb was a prototype," Caldwell said dismissively. "Subject 6 is the asset. And you have him."

Sarah froze. Subject 6. The boy from the clinic. The one Maya had dragged into the vent.

"I don't know where he is," Sarah lied.

"Don't insult my intelligence," Caldwell said. "We tracked the van to the gas station. We tracked the explosion. We know you didn't die in that fire. And we know you didn't leave empty-handed."

He leaned forward, his face filling the frame.

"Bring me the boy, Sarah. And the drive. And I'll let you live. I'll even let you keep the estate."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I'll burn everything you have left," Caldwell said. "Starting with your daughter."

Sarah’s hand tightened on the tire iron still hidden in the folds of her skirt. "Maya is safe."

"Maya is in a motel in New Jersey," Caldwell said. "Room 104. She's watching cartoons and eating vending machine chips. She thinks you're coming back."

Sarah’s breath caught. He knew.

"Don't worry," Caldwell said. "My team hasn't moved in yet. I wanted to give you a chance to do the right thing."

"The right thing," Sarah repeated. "Like harvesting children?"

"Like saving the leader of the free world," Caldwell said. "My condition is degenerative, Sarah. Without the treatments, I have six months. The country needs me. The world needs me."

"The world needs to know what you are," Sarah said.

She smashed the laptop screen with the tire iron.

The glass shattered. Caldwell’s face fractured into a thousand shards of light.

The man in the doorway sighed.

"That was expensive," he said.

He raised the gun.

Sarah didn't wait. She threw the tire iron.

It spun through the air, a blur of rust and metal. The man ducked, but not fast enough. The iron clipped his shoulder, knocking him back into the doorframe. The gun fired, the bullet tearing into the ceiling.

Sarah ran. Not for the door. For the window.

She dove through the glass, landing on the lanai. She scrambled up, shards slicing into her palms, and ran for the service gate.

She didn't look back. She didn't stop until she reached the rental car.

She threw herself into the driver's seat, keying the ignition. The engine roared.

"Mom?" Maya asked from the backseat, waking up.

"We have to go," Sarah said, peeling out of the parking spot. "They know where we are."

"Did you find him?" Maya asked. "Did you find the proof?"

Sarah reached into her pocket. Her fingers brushed the cool metal of the flash drive. Martha's insurance policy.

"I found it," Sarah said. "But we have a problem."

"What problem?"

"They know about the motel," Sarah said, merging onto the highway. "They know about everything."

She looked at the fuel gauge. Half a tank. Enough to get to the airport. Or a boat. Or a hole in the ground.

"We need to disappear," Sarah said. "For real this time."

"How?" Maya asked. "They have satellites. They have cameras. They have Argus."

"We go where there are no cameras," Sarah said.

She pulled out the map Robert had given her. She traced a line south.

"The Everglades," she said.

"The swamp?" Maya asked.

"The blind spot," Sarah said. "My father had a fishing camp there. Off the grid. No power. No signal."

"And then what?"

"Then," Sarah said, looking at the flash drive, "we upload the truth. From the only place they can't jam."

"Where is that?"

"Cuba," Sarah said. "We're taking the boat to Havana."

But as they drove south, the radio crackled to life. A news bulletin.

*...reports of a shooting in a gated community in Boca Raton. Police are seeking a woman fitting the description of Sarah Jenkins...*

"They're already spinning it," Maya whispered.

"Let them spin," Sarah said. "We have the drive."

She reached into her pocket again.

But her hand hit nothing but fabric.

The drive was gone.

"No," Sarah whispered. "No, no, no."

She patted her other pocket. The console. The floor.

Nothing.

She must have dropped it. When she jumped through the window. Or when she tackled the man.

It was back in the house. With the dead doctor. And the fixer.

"Mom?" Maya asked. "What's wrong?"

"We have to go back," Sarah said, slamming on the brakes.

"What? Why?"

"I dropped it," Sarah said. "I dropped the proof."

Maya stared at her. "We can't go back. They'll kill us."

"If we don't go back," Sarah said, turning the car around, "we're already dead."

She floored the gas, speeding back toward the community. Back toward the trap.

But as they rounded the corner, she saw the smoke.

Thick, black smoke rising from the cul-de-sac.

Thorne's house was on fire.

"They're burning it," Sarah whispered. "They're burning everything."

The drive. The doctor. Martha.

It was all gone.

Sarah stopped the car. She watched the flames lick the sky, bright and hungry.

"We lost," she said.

"No," Maya said. She reached into her own pocket.

"We didn't lose," she said.

She pulled out a small, silver object.

The flash drive.

"You dropped it when you got in the car," Maya said. "I picked it up."

Sarah stared at the drive. Then at her daughter. She grabbed her face and kissed her forehead.

"You," she said, "are grounded for life."

"Fair," Maya said. "Now can we go to Cuba?"