PART 2
Grant’s grip returned to my arm.
“You set me up,” he whispered.
I pulled away. “I documented what you did.”
His panic became rage. He swung the broken folder toward my face. I blocked it, but the metal clasp cut through my sleeve, leaving a thin line of blood above my wrist.
A military police sergeant seized Grant from behind.
“Major, step back.”
“I’m...
My name is Dana Reeves. In this small Virginia town, I’m just the nurse who keeps her head down and prints charts for Dr. Merritt. But the air in the trauma bay suddenly tastes like copper and adrenaline, a sensory trigger I spent two years trying to bury. A military convoy on Route 40 just rolled, and the screams...
The metal barrel of the rifle pressed into my spine, cold and unyielding, even through the thin fabric of my scrubs. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t breathe. In this clinic—a converted, forgotten train station twelve kilometers from the Rio Grande—panic is a luxury I discarded years ago. Eight of them had stormed the entrance, their movements too synchronized, their...
My name is Elias Thorne, and for ten years, I’ve been a ghost in the machine of the Department of Defense. I don’t exist on paper, but I’ve existed in every war zone that didn’t make the evening news. Right now, I’m not a soldier; I’m a man bleeding out on the sticky floor of a Denny’s in rural...
The red laser dot danced across my chest, steady and hungry. I didn't need to see the shooter to know the drill: find cover, neutralize, survive. My name is Jack Miller, a former DEA field operative who thought he’d left the violence back in the cartels of Mexico, but the past has a nasty habit of catching up to...
My name is Daniel Hayes, and I thought I had buried my past under a decade of Marine Corps discipline. I was wrong. The snow in Yakima was coming down in thick, blinding sheets, turning the highway into a white void. My K9, Rex, sat in the passenger seat, his ears suddenly pricking forward. He let out a sharp,...
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## Part 1
"Hands where we can see them! FBI!"
The heavy oak doors of my parents’ suburban Chicago dining room burst open, shattering the clinking of fine crystal and the pretentious murmur of thirty dinner guests.
My name is Bridget Whitney. At thirty-two, I’m a senior forensic accountant for one of the top firms in the city. I trace stolen millions...
## Part 1
My name is Clara Vance, a senior auditor at a boutique firm in downtown Boston, and right now, two federal agents are pinning my hands against my own mahogany desk while my boss bleeds out on the Persian rug beside me.
"Don't move, Clara!" Special Agent Vance—no relation, though the cruel irony isn't lost on me—barks in my...
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## Part 1
My name is Myra Whitmore. As a thirty-four-year-old cardiology resident and single mother in Chicago, I knew how to handle pressure—until the night my life shattered in forty-five seconds.
I was driving home from a grueling twenty-four-hour shift, exhausted, when a distracted driver T-boned my sedan. The metal crumpled instantly into my chest. Blood filled my mouth, and...
## Part 1
My name is Myra Whitmore. I’m a thirty-four-year-old cardiology resident in Chicago, a single mom to three-year-old twins, and right now, I am bleeding to death inside a speeding ambulance.
The sirens wailed, echoing the sheer panic tearing through my chest. Minutes ago, a running semi-truck slammed into my driver-side door at fifty miles an hour. Cold sweat...
