Reed slowly turned his head toward my father.

He looked at Arthur Harrington the way a man looks at black mold rotting beneath an expensive Persian rug.

“There’s no misunderstanding here, Mr. Harrington,” Reed growled, his voice vibrating with absolute contempt.

“Your daughter didn’t run away. She commanded a highly classified, covert recovery unit in the immediate aftermath of the Pacific Star incident.

She waded into a thousand-degree inferno.