NOTIFICATION: PRESTIGE FIRST NATIONAL BANK. ACCOUNT MAINTENANCE REQUIRED. PLEASE VISIT YOUR LOCAL BRANCH IN PERSON.

I stared at the message. My pulse didn’t quicken—my pulse hadn’t quickened in years, not since the extraction in Yemen—but a cold knot of annoyance tightened in my gut. In person. I hated “in person.” “In person” meant variables I couldn’t control. It meant crowds. It meant loud noises and sudden movements and the exhausting effort of pretending I was just a woman in a cardigan and not a walking, breathing weapon system that had been decommissioned but not deactivated.

I reached for my keys. As I did, my sleeve rode up my left wrist.

There they were. The numbers. The coordinates. Tattooed in black ink that had faded to a dull charcoal. The location of a grave that didn’t exist on any official map. I yanked the sleeve down.

“Check the perimeter,” I whispered to the empty room. Old habits die screaming.

I checked the locks. Once. Twice. Then I stepped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me like the slide of a pistol.