“Then explain it.”
Jackson laughed without humor.
“I've been trying to explain it for six months.”
“You've been making accusations without evidence.”
“Because the evidence disappeared.”
“And today you decided your solution was to provoke Captain Mercer in front of a thousand witnesses?”
“I needed certainty.”
“You could have asked her.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Jackson leaned forward.
“Because if she knew what she knows, she'd lie.”
Ward stared at him.
“And if she didn't?”
“Then she'd react naturally.”
Ward slowly understood.
“You were testing muscle memory.”
Jackson looked down at his hands.
“That technique hasn't been officially taught since 1999.”
“You recognize it?”
His expression changed.
“I've had nightmares about it for twenty-three years.”
Aria had not thought about her father in months.
That realization made her feel guilty.
Thomas Mercer had become less a memory than a collection of photographs.
A tall man laughing beside a lake.
A man lifting her onto his shoulders at a county fair.
A man kneeling beside a bicycle while six-year-old Aria gripped the handlebars.
Her strongest memory was his hands.
Large.
Scarred.
Patient.
He had taught her to tie fishing knots.
How to patch a bicycle tire.
How to fall without putting her wrists behind her.
Aria's head snapped up.
“How to fall,” she whispered.
Cross heard.
“What?”
She looked at him.
“My father taught me how to fall.”
Nobody moved.
“When I was little,” she continued. “We used to wrestle in the backyard. He showed me how to tuck my shoulder. Roll. Protect my head.”
Cross leaned forward.
“What else?”
“I don't remember.”
“Try.”
Aria closed her eyes.
Sunlight.
Grass.
Her father's laugh.
She remembered charging toward him.
Remembered him catching her wrist.
“Turn the key,” she whispered.
Harper exchanged a look with Cross.
Aria's eyes opened.
“He used to call it that. Turn the key.”
Cross stood.
“Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me.”
He extended his wrist.
Aria hesitated.
Then took it.
Her thumb moved.
Angle changed.
Foot stepped outside his.
Cross pulled away instantly.
“That's it.”
Aria released him.
“What is?”
He looked toward Harper.
General Harper finally nodded.
Cross opened a secure folder.
Inside was an old photograph.
He placed it on the table.
Aria stopped breathing.
The photograph showed nine men standing in front of a hangar.
The quality was poor.
The uniforms were old.
Most faces were unfamiliar.
But the man on the far left—
Aria knew him.
Her father.
Thomas Mercer.
Younger than she remembered.
No smile.
Arms crossed.
Standing beside a twenty-five-year-old Jackson Hale.
Aria felt the room tilt around her.
“No.”
Cross turned the photograph over.
Names had been written on the back.
THOMAS MERCER.
JACKSON HALE.
Eight others.
And a designation that had been blacked out.
Aria pushed the photograph away.
“My father was an aircraft mechanic.”
Harper said nothing.
“He repaired helicopters.”
Still nothing.
“My mother has his service records.”
Cross replied, “The records your family received were constructed after his death.”
Aria stood so fast the chair scraped backward.
“No.”
“Captain—”
“You're telling me my father's entire career was fabricated?”
“Parts of it.”
“What parts?”
“The parts involving a classified evaluation unit called Sentinel Group.”
Aria stared at him.
“What was Sentinel?”
Cross hesitated.
“A prototype joint-services program. Small teams drawn from different branches. They were studying whether experienced operators could be trained to improvise across traditional specialties.”
“And my father?”
“One of their instructors.”
Aria looked again at the photograph.
“Why was I told he was a mechanic?”
“Because officially, that was his assignment.”
“How did he die?”
Nobody answered.
Aria's voice sharpened.
“How did my father die?”
Harper looked directly at her.
“We don't know.”
The official story had been simple.
Thomas Mercer died during a training accident overseas.
No body was recovered.
A memorial followed.
Flags.
Uniforms.
A folded triangle placed into the hands of Aria's mother.
For twenty-three years, Aria had accepted that version.