MONDAY, APRIL 20th 2:00 PM EDT MANHATTAN INTERNATIONAL TRAUMA CENTER (MITC), NY

In the last forty-eight hours, Kate Preacher had killed seven men. The count doesn’t matter. That’s what Jake would say. The messaged did: Come at me, and it’s the hospital or the morgue—I don’t care which.

The helicopter’s rotors clawed at the Manhattan sky, lifting Kate into the air and away from the carnage. She was safe—for now.

From the hospital rooftop, Vitali Moshenski watched her ascend, his expression almost fatherly. But Kate didn’t trust him—too many secrets, too much left unsaid. Still, he was useful—opening doors, managing chaos, cleaning up the fallout at Moore Tower

When Kate asked for somewhere to go, Vitali’s first suggestion had been to seek the company of friends. But when she insisted on solitude, he relented, arranging this flight to his Hudson Valley estate—a place to think, to work, and to plan her next move.

Alone in the helicopter, a roller-coaster of emotions and thoughts collided. She was startled to realize it had only been four days.

Four days ago, Jake was in Paris. Smiling. Bragging about an anniversary present. Promising he’d make it home—this time.

That was a promise Jake couldn’t keep. While Kate watched and listened, her world turned upside down. Tires screeched. Cries of “Allahu Akbar!” rang out. She could still hear the continuous explosion of automatic gunfire and the collision of screams and shattered glass. Jake’s phone laying at the edge of the road caught flashes of the terror, while Kate’s screams for her husband vanished amid gunfire and chaos.

The world was shocked by yet another Paris terrorist attack—the senseless murder of thirty-six, and the heroics of a man the French media dubbed l’Américain, the American. It seemed Jake was the right man in the wrong place. Kate knew better—Jake was executed. She didn’t know why, not yet—but she wouldn’t stop until she did.

The helicopter banked east. City lights vanished, replaced by forest and water—but the noise in Kate’s head remained. She closed her eyes, her fingers pressing against the NanoVault beneath her shirt as if the touch might summon Jake’s voice.

She pulled it free, turning the device over in her fingers. The cool metal was familiar now—like a well-worn chess piece between moves. But the board was still a blur. The opponent, unseen.

Jake left her the first move.

She just had to see it.

“Find this,” Jake said in the recording, lifting the device from under his shirt. His voice was steady, but she saw the tension, the clenched jaw. “And do your thing. See what everyone is missing. What I missed. Solve the puzzle. And take them down.”

Kate exhaled slowly, her grip tightening around the device.

Devin Moore never took it off—not until the moment he had no choice.

His throat crushed, gasping for air. He ripped it from his neck and thrust it into her hands. Bargaining for his life.

She let him die.

A marketing ploy. That’s all it was supposed to be. The Golden NanoVault. A high-stakes challenge to hackers around the world—break its encryption, claim a fortune. Fifty million in Bitcoin.

No one ever cracked it. Not even Nomad.

But it wasn’t just a game.

Devin’s encrypted storage wasn’t just a gimmick—it was a vault of secrets, shielding something so dangerous that he killed to keep it buried. A French mathematician—gone. Nomad—next on the list.

And now it was hers.

Jake’s files were inside, somewhere beneath layers of encryption. But what else did Moore hide? He built this empire on privacy, selling the illusion of security to the world. But what was he protecting for himself?

She exhaled again, gripping the NanoVault tighter.

The helicopter jolted slightly, catching an air pocket. Kate opened her eyes, swallowing the ache in her throat, and glanced at the co-pilot.

He gestured toward the window, his voice cutting through the roar of the rotors. “Almost there.”

Kate tugged at her harness, then leaned forward, her gaze following his hand. What she saw was a picture of old-money grandeur—a relic of America’s Gilded Age. She guessed the estate was easily 200 acres, or more, of rolling hills and forest, the kind of property built by families whose names adorned library wings and hospital foundations.

The helicopter touched down on a pad set just beyond the main house. Everything about the man who greeted her, from his posture to the way he clasped his hands behind his back, radiated an unshakable confidence that came with a lifetime of service.

“Mrs. Preacher,” he began, his voice as polished as the rest of him. “Welcome to Deerfield. I am Langdon, the estate manager. Mr. Moshenski asked me to ensure your stay is…uninterrupted.”

Kate raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “Langdon,” she repeated, testing the name. “Do you have a first name?”

“No, ma’am,” he replied with the faintest hint of a smile. “Langdon will suffice.”

Her lips quirked, a faint smirk escaping. “Alright, Langdon. Lead the way.”

Langdon gave a small nod, his expression betraying the barest trace of amusement. “I understand you’re traveling light,” he continued, “so a few essentials have been selected and placed in your suite. Additionally, Mr. Moshenski has arranged for a personal stylist to assist with anything else you may require. Discreetly, of course.”

Kate’s smirk deepened, and she allowed herself a wry glance at him. “Of course.”

***

The Highlands Suite was a picture of understated elegance. A central seating area. A plush gray couch. A large picture window framed a view of rolling hills and a shimmering lake below, its surface reflecting the golden hues of the late afternoon sun. Beyond the lake, groves of ancient trees stood like sentinels.

By the window sat a small dining table with a setting for one. A bowl of perfectly arranged fruit and an assortment of artisanal snacks—a small plate of cheeses, crackers, and chocolates.

Langdon gestured to the table. “The chef thought you might appreciate a few light refreshments after your journey. Dinner can be served here, should you prefer, or in the main dining room.”

Kate glanced at the table, already certain this was where she would dine. “This is perfect,” she began. “Are there any other guests?”

“No, ma’am,” Langdon replied. “And none are expected.”

Thank God, she thought. No introductions, meaningless chit-chat, questions, or condolences.

“In the master closet, you’ll find an estate robe and slippers, along with a few additional items procured for your stay. Should you require anything further, your stylist is scheduled to meet with you tomorrow morning at nine, but she’s at your disposal should you wish to adjust the time.”

Kate nodded, but her attention was captured by the executive workstation positioned near the far wall. “Floating high-res monitors. Herman Miller chair,” she began. “Power and network ports, cable management, and task lighting—this setup was designed by an expert.”

Langdon nodded and smiled. “The card on the desk provides details on accessing the estate’s network.” He paused, a hint of humor threading his voice. “I suspect, given your expertise, you’ll find the setup adequate. Mr. Moshenski has asked that you refrain from exploring the estate’s network security. He suspects you would have little difficulty circumventing our defenses but would prefer you not test that theory.”

Kate allowed herself a faint smile. “Understood.”

When Langdon left, Kate dropped her bag onto the couch and plopped down alongside. For the first time in days, she felt a flicker of calm. Just a flicker, but for now, it was enough.

***

Whether consciously or not, everything about her arrival at the estate had been in slow motion. Bathing, changing, dinner in the room—even setting up her devices—each step had been careful, methodical, and calculated. But beneath it all, she knew the truth: she was afraid.

Moore’s NanoVault was a Pandora’s box. At the last possible moment, Jake’s files had been transferred to the device, but their condition was a mystery. She suspected some files would be corrupt. But how many? And how important? She was afraid of what she might find—and might not. She was afraid to fail.

She sat at the workstation, her fingers cradling the device, hesitating as the weight of its history pressed down on her.

Jake’s files weren’t just answers to his final riddle—they were a reckoning. And now, with his files tucked inside Moore’s one-of-a-kind device, Kate wondered what else was on Moore’s NanoVault. What secrets might Devin have secured on the vault, Kate wondered. What did he think was so valuable, so important, he never took this off—except to bargain for his life?

Kate took a deep breath, steadying herself. You can do this, she thought, echoing Jake’s words from the video. Solve the puzzle. See what everyone else missed.

She pushed the fear aside, connected the device to her system, and considered Moore’s passcode.

Hardly unique, she thought. He must have believed the code’s irrelevance added security. In that regard, he wasn’t wrong. Most passwords, phrases, and codes had a personal connection, and with enough time and background information, they were relatively easy to break.

Kate recalled Moore lying on the floor, his trachea crushed, the image of him gasping for air and pleading silently for her help burned into her mind. With trembling hands, he tore the device from the chain around his neck and pressed it into her palm. His right hand lifted weakly, flashing three fingers, then one, then four, repeating the sequence over and over—three, one, four.

She turned to the NanoVault and set its mechanical dials to the first seven digits of Pi:

3-1-4-1-5-9-2

The lock clicked open.

***

10:47 PM EDT

The first few hours of exploring, mapping, and decrypting files were tedious but not unusual. Years of digital forensics work, first as a CIA analyst and more recently with a Richmond law firm, stressed the value of patience—and the rewards of progressing methodically.

Including rewards she hadn’t expected.

Kate’s breathing was steady but shallow as she launched the encrypted video chat. When Nomad’s avatar appeared on the screen, she sighed and relaxed.

“I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you so soon,” Nomad said, his voice laced with curiosity. “Is everything OK?”

“Sorry,” Kate replied, brushing off his concern. “Did I wake you?”

Nomad laughed. “Carpe Noctem, seize the night,“ he said. “Besides, I’m still too wired from this morning’s near-death experience. What’s up?”

“I connected to Moore’s NanoVault—“

“Are Jake’s files intact?” he interrupted. “I didn’t have much time—I wasn’t sure…”

“Relax. So far, many—maybe most—are intact,” Kate replied. “They’ll take time to untangle and understand. But that’s not why I called.”

“You want me to have a look at the corrupted files?” Nomad asked. “There’s always a chance I can recover some of them.”

Kate arched a brow, her tone firm. “If you’ll stop interrupting me, I’ll show you what I found.”

“Oh. Sorry. What did you find?”

“Here,” Kate said, sharing her screen. “Take a look.”

“Holy crap on a cracker.”

“That’s not quite what I said,” Kate replied dryly, “but you get the idea.”

“How much is it?”

“At market value…almost two hundred fifty million,“ Kate said, her voice steady, though the size of the number lingered in the air. “This is way more than the bounty.”

“A lot more,” Nomad agreed, his tone cautious. “Moore’s key wasn’t just his metaphorical Swiss Bank Account—it was the real deal. How many times did we hear him use that analogy?”

“We all assumed he meant privacy and security,” Kate said. “Turns out he meant it literally.”

“Right, but don’t forget, Moore was a multi-multi-billionaire,” Nomad said. “In the big picture, this is like one-half of one percent—this was his walking-around money. And since it’s all Bitcoin, I’ll bet the IRS doesn’t know a thing about it.”

“I’m counting on that,” Kate replied. “And that’s why I called.”

“Right—you can’t exactly deposit this in your checking account,” he said, chuckling. “Leave it to me—it will take some time to stay under the radar, but this is one of my specialties.”

“I hoped you’d say that,” Kate said. “Let’s just split this—fifty-fifty.”

“No way,” Nomad protested. “I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you—I’m not taking your money.”

“It’s not my money.”

“It is now, Kate,” he said, leaving no room for debate.

“Fine,” Kate agreed, knowing it was pointless to argue. “Just move it for now, and we’ll work out the details later.”

Kate opened a covert communications channel, granting Nomad access to her laptop. And with a series of voice commands, Nomad took control of the vault.

Kate sat back while Nomad worked on moving the Bitcoin private keys.

“Just the keys,” Kate cautioned. “This isn’t a fishing expedition.”

***

TUESDAY, APRIL 21st 5:00 AM EDT

Kate always woke early. Boo used to love that, but if she wasn’t stirring by five, he would help. First came the nudge—his cold nose against her elbow. If that didn’t work, his tongue would find an exposed toe.

But Boo was gone now, and mornings felt emptier without him. The familiar ritual had been replaced by silence. Her only companion was the memory of his wagging tail and soulful eyes. “Hey Boo,” she whispered as if he could still hear her.

She rolled out of bed and sat on the edge, her hands brushing the cool fabric of her sleepwear. “Good morning, my love,” she murmured, blowing Jake a kiss. “It’s coffee time.”

The suite’s espresso machine hummed to life, the aroma of rich, dark coffee filling the air. Over her first double espresso, Kate mapped out her day. I can work for a couple of hours, skip breakfast, and meet with the stylist at nine—I need something for the funeral.

Kate tried not to think about Jake’s funeral, but it was impossible to push aside.

Three days from now, on what would have been their fifth wedding anniversary, Senior Chief Jake Church, a retired Navy SEAL, would be laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery.

As Kate thought about Friday, she preferred to focus on their marriage, life, and anniversary. Five incredible years, she thought. Filled with adventure, love, and laughter—and nowhere near long enough.

With the first espresso gone, Kate prepared another—she knew it would be a long day.

The meeting with the stylist was pleasant and brief—the master closet now held everything she might need for the next few days, along with a collection of all-black clothing.

“For Friday, I’ve curated a few options: trousers or skirts paired with tailored blouses and matching blazers, as well as a couple of classic dresses with wraps. There’s also a longer coat in case the weather turns.”

It was kind of her not to say the word, Kate thought. Friday was quite enough. And there was no pressure to decide. But with the weight of the funeral pressing down, the sheer number of choices felt overwhelming. Not today. I’ll try them tomorrow.

The day vanished in a blur of identifying the corrupt files and then reviewing and organizing the readable ones by date, location, and event—it was slow, tedious work. Maybe I could delegate some of this to Nomad, she thought. Keisha would probably be willing to help, too.

But she shook her head, dismissing the idea. It wasn’t hard work, and she trusted them—but she couldn’t take the risk. “I don’t know what’s important, not yet,” she murmured, leaning back in her chair. “The key to making sense of all this could be anything.”

It was nearly midnight before Kate noticed the time. Frustration simmered as exhaustion crept in. Finally, she shut the laptop, pushed away from the desk, and headed for bed.

***

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 22nd 9:38 AM EDT

The morning passed in a barrage of files and disappointment. Jake’s notes were meticulous but fragmented, like pieces of a puzzle scattered across a table with no edges to guide her.

Two ominous folders stood out: The Final Roll Call and The Silent Watch.

Everyone on The Final Roll Call was dead. Jake’s annotations detailed their causes of death, ranging from suspicious accidents to outright assassination. Car crashes, sudden illnesses, staged suicides—all with an unsettling frequency and precision that defied coincidence.

Among the names were a handful of high-profile figures whose deaths had made international headlines.

Alejandro Suarez, CEO of EnergíaViva, a renewable energy giant in Spain—killed in a Barcelona carjacking.

Dr. Lila Kashyap, Senior Fellow and Director of the AI Research Lab at the Mumbai Institute of Technology—killed in an apartment complex fire.

U.S. Senator Henry Topping—drowned in a boating accident off Martha’s Vineyard.

But many others were virtual unknowns—ordinary people whose deaths barely registered beyond local obituaries. Jake put them on the list, she thought. There must be a reason.

The Silent Watch was no less chilling. These individuals were missing, some for years, their disappearances cloaked in mystery. Most were now presumed dead, but Jake hadn’t been so quick to accept that conclusion.

Dr. Jürgen Mayer, an epidemiologist specializing in viral outbreak modeling, vanished during a conference in Berlin.

Sophia Chen, a game theorist and AI ethicist, last seen boarding a flight to Geneva, never arrived.

Antonio Castaldi, a physicist working on modular nuclear power systems, disappeared from his home in Florence.

The more she read, the more doubt crept in. Jake had a sharp mind and unparalleled instincts, but the sheer volume of data he collected was overwhelming. She pictured Jake’s “wall of crazy,” what they called these boards at Langley—random bits of data pinned to a board searching for a pattern.

Jake’s wall, hidden in the cabin’s armory and guarded by anti-personnel mines, was a chaotic collage of newspaper clippings, photographs, and scribbled notes—all intricately linked by a colorful web of threads. Scarlet strands converged at the center, connecting to a stark black-and-white illustration.

The image hit her like a gut punch: red string crisscrossing a board, clippings, and photos pinned in random clusters. It wasn’t just a memory of Jake’s wall—she pictured the scene from A Beautiful Mind. She could see Russell Crowe’s John Nash standing before a similar wall, piecing together an elaborate conspiracy that didn’t exist.

Kate’s chest tightened. What if Jake was doing the same? The thought terrified her. He hid this work from me for over a year—why? Kate wondered. To protect me, or hide the truth? Was he seeing patterns or chasing ghosts?

“No,” Kate said out loud, silencing the inner voice. “At the center of Jake’s wall was the sketch—a masked samurai wielding a sword and a single word: RONIN.”

Ronin was real—she’d seen the video, watched him kill Francois, a harmless old man—and she knew the killer’s identity.

After days of working in near total silence, hearing her own voice was startling, but the facts were reassuring. “Jake wasn’t some tourist at the wrong cafe. The note in Jake’s Paris hotel room said exactly when and where to meet. He was set up.”

Kate’s doubts crumbled. Jake found something, she thought. Or someone believed he did—and that was enough to kill him. But I need to shift my focus—get a broader perspective.

She closed the folders of the dead and missing and returned to scanning through the NanoVault’s directory structure. She’d already concluded many of the files had no immediate value—hotel bills, miscellaneous receipts, and the team’s expense reports. There were mission notes—and after-action reports, but none stood out. If there were any major mission issues or failures—Jake would have briefed me long before now.

In a Building Plans folder, she found a collection of architectural drawings, construction plans, and CAD files—sprawling, complex, and meticulous. That’s odd, she thought. No identifying marks—no project name or logos, not even an architect’s signature.

She frowned and ran a quick reverse image search. Nothing.

“I’ll come back to you,” she murmured, cataloging the folder for later.

A folder full of MP4 videos grabbed her attention. Probably surveillance video, she thought, but the first video she played took her breath away.

“Jake Church! You are so busted,” she said, but couldn’t stop smiling. “Oh Kate—do you really have to record everything,“ she said, mocking his objections to recording their video chats.

And here they were—his own private collection of their videos.

“You sneaky, sentimental liar,” she whispered, smiling through the sting of tears.“You have them all.”

She grabbed another video at random—Jake was saying goodnight, his voice warm and steady as he blew her a kiss. Kate closed the file and shut the tablet, cradling it against her chest.

She blew him a kiss in return and, for the first time in a week, drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.

***

THURSDAY, APRIL 23rd 6:38 AM EDT

Almost by accident, she spotted a single file buried in a cache folder—the kind of temporary folder created during updates or after a system crash.

Her heart pounded. The file was created two minutes before the attack. She hovered over the mouse, hesitated—then clicked.

The file contained a single word: Albatross.

But the file’s metadata told the real story. This was a text message captured via a cloned cell phone—precisely the type of file she’d analyzed hundreds of times at the Agency.

In Paris, Deputy Director Boucher demanded to know why Jake’s backpack had illegal cell phone jamming and cloning gear. Now she had an answer—Jake was tracking someone in close physical proximity, someone at the cafe.

The cafe’s street cam video, she thought. I need to see it again. Kate hoped she’d never have to see it again, but this was different.

The video began as always: Jake at the café, his phone propped up for their chat. Marcus appeared, walking into frame. He glanced at the phone, greeted Kate, and teased Jake about being at the wrong cafe.

He was trying to pull Jake away, she realized. I suspected a pretty waitress—Marcus never missed a chance to flirt with a beautiful woman.

She fast-forwarded to the critical moment and froze the frame. Marcus stood on the street corner, eyes glued to a phone—but not the team’s secure Blackphone. The phone in his hand was a Samsung.

“You son of a bitch,” Kate whispered. You sent the text. Albatross was a mission abort code—but it was too late.

The video resumed: Marcus glanced back at Jake, his eyes wide as the screech of tires ripped through the audio. Jake’s voice followed, sharp and urgent: “The kids,” he shouted to Marcus. “Get the kids!”

Kate slammed the laptop shut. She couldn’t watch anymore. She couldn’t watch Jake die—not again.

The suite felt like a prison, the air too thick to breathe, the walls closing in. Kate grabbed her jacket and darted outside, letting her feet carry her away. It didn’t matter where—she just needed to move, to think.

Her mind raced. The Paris attack, Marcus’s role, the Albatross text—it all swirled in her head. Jake loved Marcus like a brother, Kate knew. But he must have figured it out—or at least suspected—Marcus was Ronin.

Kate wrestled with the image of Jake watching Marcus on the street corner, burner phone in hand—the panic in Marcus’s eyes. That explains Jake’s last words, Kate realized. The warning. Jake knew I’d find out—and he knew what I would do.

She bolted back to the suite. Jake was right—she wanted to kill him. But Marcus didn’t pull the trigger. He wasn’t driving the van.

Closing the door behind her. This is bigger than Marcus, much bigger, she concluded. But he knows something.

Whatever he knows, Kate was certain of one thing: Marcus wasn’t going to tell her—not willingly.

Would Ryder help, she wondered, pacing the suite. As the CIA’s Deputy Director, Margot Ryder could snatch Marcus off the street with a single phone call. But Ryder would also cut me out of the loop—I’d never know the truth.

Her gaze drifted to the black dress laid out on the bed. Her throat tightened, but she choked back the tears. Not now, she thought. Tomorrow will come soon enough. Right now, I need to think. I need a plan.

And that plan wasn’t Ryder—that much she knew.

There was another way—a man with the resources and the ruthlessness to make it happen. Trusting him was dangerous—she knew that. But what choice did she have?

Vitali knows I killed Moore, Kate thought. He probably knows about the others, too. That could be a problem. But right now, I need answers more than I need to be safe.

She pictured the man she’d only met a few days ago but knew by reputation—his rise to wealth and power shrouded in mystery and innuendo. How much of it was true was anyone’s guess, but one thing was certain: he had what she needed. Would he do this for me, she wondered. Well, there’s one way to find out.

With a steadying breath, Kate grabbed her phone and dialed Vitali.

A cold determination settled over her, cutting through the haze of grief and confusion. For the first time, the path forward was clear.

Marcus Jones was as tough and disciplined as they came. Getting the answers she wanted wasn’t going to be easy. For anyone.

Kate exhaled slowly, her grip tightening around the phone.

She pressed the call button. The line connected.

Then, just above a whisper, she admitted.

“Everyone breaks. Eventually.”