He unclipped a black, ruggedized data pad from his vest. The kind of tac-pad that cost more than my parents’ car. His fingers moved over the screen with practiced speed, entering codes that I knew were far above my pay grade. He glanced at the contractor badge still clipped to her belt. “EVELYN ROSS.”

He typed the name. The screen glowed green. He frowned.

I could see the faint reflection in his glasses. The file was thin. Logistics. Food service. Janitorial. Low-clearance. Basic.

He frowned harder. He knew it was wrong. His instincts were screaming at him, and a two-star’s instincts are never wrong.

He swiped, typed another code—a much longer one—and pressed his thumb to a biometric scanner on the side of the pad. The screen flashed red, then blue. A new file loaded. A file with a banner across the top that I could see even from ten feet away.

CLASSIFIED // LEVEL ALPHA // JSOC-ONLY // EYES ONLY

My heart stopped. JSOC. Joint Special Operations Command.