The commercial jet had been cruising over the Atlantic Ocean for two hours when the captain's voice caused nearly three hundred passengers to hold their breath: "If there is a fighter pilot on board, please identify yourself to the flight crew immediately."

They landed in Madrid at 6:47 in the morning.

The emergency services were waiting as promised—two paramedics who boarded quickly and efficiently, assessed the captain and co-pilot, and had both men on their way to hospital within twenty minutes.

The co-pilot woke up in the ambulance, confused and complaining of a headache.

The captain was stable.

The passengers disembarked in an orderly line, most of them unaware that anything beyond a minor medical situation had occurred.

Hawkins walked off the aircraft in the middle of the crowd, unremarkable, his jacket collar up.

He had a Spanish phone number for Laura and a hotel address in the Malasaña district.

He disappeared into the terminal without looking back.

Mara walked beside Laura through passport control.

"The call to Greer," Laura said.

"Now?"

"Now."

They found a quiet corner of the arrivals hall, near a shuttered newsstand.

Mara dialed and handed the phone to Laura.

It rang twice.

"This is Greer." The voice was alert for six in the morning.

Someone who had been waiting.

"Senator.

My name is Laura Vance.

I was a Major in the United States Air Force.

I flew F-16s out of Bagram and three forward operating bases between 2014 and 2019.

I was the mission commander on Operation Clearwater in November 2019."

A pause.

"Major Vance," Greer said.

"I've been hoping to hear from you for a long time."

"I have a surviving witness, a notarized testimony, original communications intercepts, and a pre-mission recording that contradicts the official after-action report.

I also have a personal letter from my brother, David Vance, who was on that mission and is listed in the official record as a civilian contractor whose death was unrelated to combat activity."

Another pause, longer.

"Where are you right now?"

"Madrid.

I landed forty minutes ago."

"Can you be in Washington in thirty-six hours?"

"Yes."

"Don't send anything electronically.

Bring everything physical.

Come directly to my office—not the committee offices, my personal office.

I'll have my chief of staff meet you at the entrance." He paused again.

"Major Vance.

Is the witness secure?"

"For now."

"Keep him that way." Greer's voice was measured, but something underneath it was not.

"Raymond Colt has friends in this building.

Powerful ones.

What you're bringing me will be contested the moment it surfaces.

You need to be prepared for that."

"I've been prepared for harder things," Laura said.

She ended the call and handed the phone back to Mara.

Mara looked at her.

"Well?"

"Thirty-six hours.

Washington."

Mara exhaled slowly.

It was the first time Laura had seen her look anything other than controlled.

They were in the taxi to the hotel when Laura's own phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

She answered it.

Silence for two seconds.

Then a voice she did not recognize—male, unhurried, with the particular flatness of someone who had learned to keep emotion entirely out of their tone.

"Major Vance.

I think we should speak before you make any decisions you'll regret."

Laura kept her voice level.

"Who is this?"

"Someone who has a great deal of respect for your service record and would prefer not to see it complicated by associations with unstable individuals making unverifiable claims."

"That's not an answer."

"No," the voice said.

"It's a courtesy.

The kind extended once." A pause.

"General Colt sends his regards.

He remembers you fondly.

He hopes you'll remember him the same way."

The line went d*ad.

Mara was watching her from the other seat.

"That was fast," Laura said.

"What did they say?"

"That it was a courtesy." Laura looked out the taxi window at the Madrid streets coming to life in the early morning light.