“She was alive.”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
“What did she tell you?”
Wren looked older suddenly.
“Grace discovered that Daniel’s death wasn’t a battlefield accident.”
“Who killed him?”
Wren hesitated.
Harrison slammed his palm against the table.
“Enough.”
Wren looked at me.
“We believed Daniel had identified a financial network siphoning billions from classified defense programs.”
“We?”
“Sentinel.”
“And he found the traitor?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Wren opened the notebook.
Most pages were ordinary handwriting.
One page contained a single sentence.
THE COLE MONEY IS THE KEY.
I looked at Harrison.
His face had gone pale.
Wren continued.
“Daniel believed funds were being laundered through companies connected to the Cole industrial network.”
Harrison shook his head.
“My company didn’t exist in its current form then.”
“Your father’s did.”
I looked between them.
“Jonathan Cole?”
Wren nodded.
Harrison stared at him.
“My father died in 2006.”
“The network continued.”
“What are you saying?”
Wren’s gaze settled on Harrison.
“Daniel believed someone inside your family had financed Sentinel’s compromise.”
Harrison went very still.
“My mother.”
Wren said nothing.
That was the answer.
Harrison stepped away from the table.
“No.”
I remembered his surname.
Cole.
His mother.
Vivian Cole.
Widow of Jonathan Cole.
Chairwoman emeritus.
National philanthropist.
A woman who had donated hundreds of millions to hospitals, veterans, wounded soldiers.
Her name appeared on university buildings.
Including—
I froze.
“St. Jude.”
Harrison turned.
“What?”
“The hospital wing.”
I had seen the bronze plaque hundreds of times.
THE VIVIAN COLE CARDIOVASCULAR INSTITUTE.
Harrison swore under his breath.
Then every light in the room went out.
The emergency lights flashed red.
An alarm sounded.
Harrison shoved me behind the conference table.
“Down.”
Gunfire exploded in the hallway.
Wren shouted.
Security officers drew weapons.
Glass shattered.
Three armed men entered through the side corridor.
Everything happened too fast.
Training took over.
I dropped behind a marble divider as bullets punched through the wall.
Harrison fired twice.
One attacker fell.
Another moved toward Wren.
I grabbed a fallen security officer’s sidearm.
The attacker turned toward me.
I fired.
Once.
Twice.
He dropped.
Silence lasted less than a second.
Then Harrison shouted:
“Claire!”
The third gunman was behind me.
Before I could turn, Wren threw himself between us.
The shot hit him high in the chest.
Harrison fired.
The gunman collapsed.
Wren hit the floor.
I crawled to him.
Blood spread beneath his jacket.
“No, no, no.”
He grabbed my wrist.
His eyes were wide.
“Your mother…”
“What about her?”
His fingers tightened.
“She knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Not Wren,” he gasped.
I leaned closer.
“What?”
He coughed blood.
“Not me.”
I realized what he meant.
He wasn’t the traitor.
“Who?”
Wren looked toward Harrison.
Then whispered one word.
“Vivian.”
His hand went limp.
Vivian Cole received us at her estate three days later.
That still amazes me.
Most suspected murder conspirators run.
Vivian served tea.
She was seventy-six.
Elegant.
White hair.
Pearls.
Perfect posture.
The Secret Service had once protected presidents who attended fundraisers inside that house.
Now federal agents surrounded it.
Harrison sat across from his mother.
I sat beside him.
Ethan remained under military protection.
Vivian poured herself tea.
“You always did have a flair for drama, Harrison.”
“You tried to kill me.”
“Did I?”
“My steering system was hacked through a Cole Aerospace satellite relay.”
“That proves very little.”
“Three men attacked our headquarters.”
“Security failures happen.”
“General Wren is dead.”
Vivian paused.
For the first time, something entered her expression.
Regret.
“Adrian was a good man.”
“You murdered him.”
“I did no such thing.”
I put my father’s notebook on the table.
She looked at it.
Her composure cracked.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
“You recognize this,” I said.
Vivian looked at me.
Up close, her eyes resembled Harrison’s.
“Claire Parker.”
“My father was Daniel Parker.”
“I know.”
“He was your husband’s son.”
Silence.
Harrison stared at his mother.
“You knew?”
Vivian slowly set down her cup.
“Since 1987.”
Harrison actually flinched.
“You knew Daniel existed.”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Her answer came calmly.
“Because families like ours survive by controlling complications.”
I felt disgust rise.
“My father was a complication?”
“To Jonathan, initially.”
“He was his child.”
“Yes.”
“His first child.”
