“You told me at dinner that my father died because he asked too many questions,” I said quietly.

Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “He was a boy scout. He found out about the data ring and threatened to expose us. We made sure his car met a patch of black ice.”

The confession hung in the air. My father hadn’t died in an accident. He’d been murdered by the men he served alongside.

A cold, absolute calm washed over me. The grief that had haunted me for years crystallized into focused purpose.

“My father,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper, “left me more than a coin.”

I triggered the small EMP pulse generator built into the buckle of my tactical belt — a prototype Jonas hadn’t known about.