My training was strictly digital, but adrenaline is a universal language. My heart hammered against my ribs.

I threw off the covers, sprinted to my office, and slammed my palm onto the emergency console to bring up the external feeds.

There he was. Harrison stood in the dim hallway outside my penthouse in full tactical gear — matte black plates, a sidearm at his thigh.

Beside him, a four-man entry team, faces hidden by balaclavas, weapons raised.

Harrison’s face was tight with a manufactured, frantic panic he was playing perfectly for the cameras.

He pointed at the steel door. “Breach it,” he ordered the squad leader. “My ex-wife is experiencing a severe psychological break. She has access to highly classified national security data and is threatening self-harm.