“He’s eleven, and he knows his mom deploys with elite teams.”

Wyler reached out his right hand to take the mic cord back from my fingers, but Vance laid his right hand flat on the wooden display table between them.

“Four years ago, Lieutenant,” Vance said, lowering his voice so that only the front rows and the speakers could catch every word, “you were assigned to Class 318 at the Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado.”

Wyler went completely still, the ruddy color draining out of his face in three seconds.