Marcus Washington closed his eyes for a moment, letting the warm Maldivian sun seep into his skin. The gentle crash of waves against pristine white sand provided a rhythmic backdrop to his son's laughter. It was a sound he'd heard too rarely over the past decade.

  "Dad! Watch this!"

  Marcus opened his eyes, squinting against the glare as Darius leapt high above the volleyball net, spiking the ball with enough force to send a spray of sand into the air when it hit the ground. The other college kids on the court groaned collectively.

  "That's my boy," Marcus called out, raising his coconut drink in salute. Darius beamed, his smile so much like his mother's that it created a bittersweet pang in Marcus's chest.

  "He's gotten so good," said Vanessa, adjusting her wide-brimmed hat as she settled into the lounger beside him. "Coach says he could've played D1 if he hadn't been so set on that physics program."

  Marcus nodded. "Takes after you—brilliant and athletic."

  Vanessa gave him a sidelong glance. "And stubborn. That's all you."

  The comment held no malice. Three years after their divorce, they'd reached a comfortable détente, enough to attempt this family vacation. A "graduation present" for Darius, though they all knew it was really an attempt to create memories that didn't involve arguments over Marcus's constant absences and classified work.

  Marcus's phone buzzed with a notification—his personal device, not the secure one. That one never made a sound. He ignored it.

  "You promised," Vanessa said quietly.

  "I know." Marcus took another sip of his drink. "And I meant it."

  She considered him for a moment, then seemed to accept his sincerity. "Good. Because Darius has been talking about nothing but diving with you tomorrow since we landed."

  The buzz came again. Then again. Three times in succession—the emergency pattern.

  Marcus felt his muscles tense involuntarily. Only Tyler used that sequence, and only when absolutely necessary.

  "I should check this," he said, already hating himself for the familiar words.

  Vanessa's face hardened, but she said nothing as he grabbed the phone and walked away.

  Six rapid footsteps took Marcus past the resort's infinity pool and onto the empty stretch of beach beyond. The sand burned his bare feet, but he barely registered it as he pulled out the secure sat phone that had been delivered to his room that morning—standard procedure for all Sentinel executives on leave.

  "Go ahead," he answered without preamble.

  "Sir, we have a situation." Tyler Chang's voice came through with the slight delay of satellite transmission. "The Yemen package—the one you flagged last week. Voss approved it. Already in transit."

  Marcus stopped walking, his toes digging into the hot sand. "That's impossible. I personally locked those requisitions."

  "They've implemented the new security protocols. Your holds were overridden by executive authority."

  "By whose authorization?" Marcus kept his voice controlled, but his mind was racing. The shipment contained guidance systems for Javelin-class missiles—dual-use technology, technically legal, but not with the destination Marcus had discovered through his own sources.

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  "Chambers signed off personally."

  Marcus glanced back toward the resort, where Darius had moved from volleyball to chatting with a group of young women by the bar. His son, innocent of the world Marcus inhabited.

  "How long until delivery?"

  "Seventy-two hours. It's on an expedited schedule."

  Marcus closed his eyes, calculating. "Stall it. I don't care how. Paperwork issue, inspection flag, anything. I'll be back tomorrow."

  "There's more," Tyler said, his voice dropping. "The routing has changed. It's not going through our verified channels. They're using the Odessa connection."

  Marcus felt cold despite the tropical heat. The Odessa route was essentially the black market superhighway—used by gunrunners, drug cartels, and terrorist networks. No legitimate shipment would ever be sent that way.

  "Who else knows about this?"

  "Just me. I accessed the system using your emergency credentials when the alerts were bypassed."

  "Good. Keep it that way. Destroy this transcript."

  Marcus ended the call and stared out at the endless blue horizon. After twenty years in Air Force Intelligence and another four running Sentinel's "special acquisitions," he'd developed a finely tuned sense for when operations were going sideways. This wasn't just a procedural deviation—it was a deliberate circumvention of safeguards he'd put in place.

  Someone was using his supply chains for something dangerous. Something that would likely be traced back to him when it went wrong.

  A prickling sensation at the back of his neck made Marcus turn. Fifty yards down the beach, a man in a linen shirt was pointing what looked like a professional camera in his direction. When their eyes met, the man quickly lowered the camera and turned away, walking briskly toward the cluster of beachfront restaurants.

  Marcus started after him, but the man disappeared into a crowd of tourists disembarking from a glass-bottomed boat tour. Amateur surveillance, or just a tourist taking scenic shots? His instincts indicated the former.

  "Work call?" Vanessa asked when he returned to their loungers.

  Marcus nodded, settling back into his seat. "Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow."

  The lie came easily after years of practice, but Vanessa had been an intelligence analyst long enough to read the subtle tells even Marcus couldn't fully control. She said nothing, but he could feel her studying him.

  "I was thinking we could try that seafood place tonight," he said, changing the subject. "The one Darius mentioned."

  Vanessa's expression softened slightly. "He'd like that."

  By sunset, Marcus had almost convinced himself that he could compartmentalize—enjoy one more night with his family before dealing with whatever disaster was brewing at Sentinel. They sat at a table on the beach, tiki torches illuminating their meal as Darius regaled them with stories of his first year at MIT.

  "...and then Professor Kwan says, 'That's either the most brilliant solution I've seen or complete nonsense.' Turns out it was both." Darius laughed, tearing into another crab leg.

  Marcus smiled, trying to focus on his son's words rather than the constant calculations running in the background of his mind. What was the real purpose of the Yemen shipment? Who had authorized the route change? Why now?

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. Not the emergency sequence this time, just a simple text. Unknown number.

  Marcus excused himself to the restroom, where he checked the message:

  “We should discuss your extracurricular activities at Sentinel. Lobby bar, 30 minutes.”

  Below it was a photo—taken earlier that day. Marcus on the beach with the secure phone. The image was high-resolution, professionally shot with a telephoto lens.

  He deleted the message immediately, protocol for any potential compromise, but the damage was done. Someone was watching him, someone who knew exactly who he was and what he did for Sentinel.

  When he returned to the table, Vanessa took one look at his face and knew.

  "When do you leave?" she asked quietly while Darius was distracted by a fire dancer performing nearby.

  "First flight tomorrow," Marcus admitted. "I'm sorry, Van."

  She nodded, resignation rather than anger in her eyes. "Some things never change."

  "This is different." He leaned closer. "Something's wrong at Sentinel. I think someone's using my department for unauthorized operations."

  Vanessa's expression shifted from resigned to concerned. As a former analyst, she understood the implications. "How bad?"

  "Bad enough that I need to get back immediately."

  She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "I'll explain it to Darius. Just... be careful, Marcus."

  As they finished dinner, Marcus made a show of checking his watch. "I need to make a call to the office. Head back without me—I'll catch up."

  Darius's disappointment was obvious, but he covered it quickly. "Sure, Dad. Don't work too late."

  Marcus waited until they were out of sight before heading to the resort's main building. The lobby bar was dimly lit, with rattan fans spinning lazily overhead and soft jazz playing in the background. Nearly empty on a weeknight, just a bartender and a few scattered guests.

  And a woman sitting alone in the corner, her back to the wall, a clear view of all entrances.

  Marcus approached cautiously, noting the untouched drink in front of her, the way her hand rested casually near her handbag. As he got closer, recognition hit him like a physical blow.

  Diana Frost. Former CIA operative. His liaison during joint operations in North Africa three years ago.

  Diana Frost, whose death he'd mourned after a mission gone wrong in Libya.

  She looked up as he approached, a ghost with very alive eyes.

  "Hello Marcus," she said, the familiar slight rasp in her voice sending a chill down his spine. "Your employer is about to get you killed."