Chapter One

Judge Martin Serro prided himself on his patience.

He’d sat in judgment on hundreds of high-tension cases in which his decisions affected the future happiness, security, and freedom of both America citizens and international actors. Deep in his soul, he knew that becoming agitated or emotional or downright pissed off did nothing to help any situation. Justice prevailed when cooler heads did the same.

Yet he still wanted to wring his ex-stepson’s neck.

He hunched over the antique desk in his home office, fingers digging into the phone receiver. “Take the videos down, David.” Patience. “Please.”

His ex-stepson’s droll reply angered him even more.

“Yeah, still gonna be a no. Thanks for asking nicely, though.”

Martin stared at a paused streaming video. A frozen picture of David stared glibly back. He wanted to reach through the phone and yank that glib little face off.

This video was David’s second in a span of six weeks. Both “exposed” the Culper Ring, a supposed American-spy collective subject to much conspiracy theory speculation. The Culper Ring had done a great deal to protect the U.S. and its interests.

Martin should know, as an active participant.

Rumors and speculation didn’t bother him. Conspiracy theories, he could let go.

David’s first video was just a regurgitation of bullshit from the internet. He’d spoken with conviction, but he’d made the Ring seem like knockoff Freemasons or Illuminati—just conspiracy theory nonsense no one took at face value.

Fine.

His ridiculous “reports” framed the Ring as anti-American. Antidemocratic.

Fine.

If only David knew how many times the Ring’s so-called traitorous spies had saved democracy, not only would he delete the videos, he’d beg forgiveness for making them in the first place.

Martin should have let that first video lie. But no. He’d let pride get the better of him. Furious, he’d called David. His anger had convinced the little shit his conspiracy theories were true. So David kept digging.

When Martin got home from court last week, his safe hung half open.

And his folder was gone.

Today, David presented the documents from the confidential folder in video number two, in which he read off the name of three Culper Ring members.

The small-thinking, witless shit named names.

Not fine.

Martin had stared at the frozen laptop screen. “Culper Ring Members Exposed: Proof This Secret Society Is Controlling America. Part II.”

So far, the contents only boasted a few hundred views. The limited exposure meant this could still be contained. But if the Ring’s enemies saw the video…

David had no understanding of the forces he played with.

No idea of the possible consequences.

Martin desperately tried to speak with measured, fatherly calm. “You don’t understand what you’re doing. The Culper Ring is a good thing. It’s not—”

“So you admit it’s real?”

The kid had the missing folder, so Martin saw no point in pretending. “We are not an ‘evil mold growing on the face of democracy.’”

David’s sharp cackle burst through the phone. “You memorized my video. The group is fucking real, and you memorized my shit!”

Martin thought of Teddy Roosevelt. Speak softly. “The Culper Ring is the reason democracy exists today. We fight for goodness. We help people. You’re threatening that. Threatening real people. These videos…they…they can—”

“Hey, so, my pizza’s here. Good talking to you.”
“David! Don’t you dare hang up on me.” Martin slammed his fist on the desk, rattling his paper clips in their holder.

Teddy Roosevelt also said and carry a big stick.

The kid seemed to find Martin’s fury amusing. “Half pepperoni, half mushroom. From that place by the mall.”

“The Ring has enemies!” Martin was screaming now. “If those enemies see your videos, they will kill whoever you name. And if they get ahold of that folder you stole—”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look. I know you took the folder. I know you’re posting information found inside. You need to stop.” Martin pinched the bridge of his nose. “They will murder every person named on that list. And you.”

“Interesting group, actually.” David’s voice was still glib. Dripping with smugness. “Penny Fryman. She’s running for mayor, right? Then there’s Sean Singh. Isn’t he the D.A.? Fascinating stuff.”

“You don’t even have those facts right! Penny is running for Congress, and Sean is a U.S. Attorney.” Martin squeezed his eyes shut and spoke a prayer out loud. “Please let him take the video down. Please, please, please. Don’t let him keep it up.”

“You are so dramatic.” David chuckled. “Do you seriously think some scary bad guy is gonna kill you and all your entitled little friends? Hunt me down and…what? Torture me? Over a video?”

Martin answered like he was breathing fire. “That’s what they do, David. Maybe you should read deeper into those stolen files.”

The chuckle turned into a full-throated laugh. “Whatever. I’m gonna go eat my pizza now. Have a good one.”

David hung up, and Martin erupted in a guttural scream.

Jumping from his chair, he ripped the phone off his desk, tore the cords from the wall, and heaved it at the bookshelf. Three diplomas crashed down, and a dog-eared copy of East of Eden landed with a thud on the hardwood.

Martin refocused on David’s video, still paused on his laptop. The young man’s glare was hard and cold, but Martin could only see the teenage boy in there.

Tears burned his eyes. After Martin married Elaine, he did everything he could for David. Put a roof over his head. Food in his mouth. He kept paying for David’s college after the divorce.

Even then, David had acted indifferent. Now he seemed like he resented every ounce of support Martin had ever given him.

That ungrateful, disrespectful, arrogant, sniveling—

With one sweeping motion, Martin knocked a dozen books off the shelf. His blood pulsed as he cleared another, and another.

“Fucking asshole! Son of a bitch! Ungrateful, entitled, obnoxious, snot-nosed—”

Martin was hyperventilating now. He shouldn’t get this worked up.

He stumbled to his desk and drank his water, sipping at first before chugging the whole glass. It didn’t help. His heart was going twice as fast as it should be.

Dripping sweat, he watched his office spin.

One more inhale, and he leaned on the desk with both palms down on the mahogany. He had to calm down before he called David back. That was the only way he’d be able to—

A thunderclap of flame and smoke ripped through the room.

Martin flew through the office like a rag doll, slamming against the bookshelf before crashing to the floor.

Sounds vanished.

There wasn’t even a distant ringing. Warm liquid trickled from his ears, all that was left of his eardrums.

Martin no longer moved. None of his limbs worked.

Black clouds and raging fire surrounded him. Smoke overtook the room.

On his back, he focused on his left arm—the only limb he still seemed able to locate. He lifted his hand from a puddle. Strings of dark liquid connected his fingers to the floor.

That’s blood. My blood.

Martin coughed. A sharp pain clapped his ribs.

But the worst part was the heat. Though he could only sense pieces and parts of his body, those pieces and parts were blistering. Like he was boiling from the inside.

Groaning, he tried to edge away from the flames. Fire approached from every direction.

He closed his eyes against particles of ash. The stinging didn’t relent. But a new image replaced his black, smoky reality—David in a silky green robe, giving the valedictorian speech at Honolulu High.

Martin didn’t know if he was crying, sweating, bleeding, or all of the above.

He didn’t know if he was whispering, screaming, or merely thinking.

But one last prayer traveled through his body.

Run, David.

Run.

Chapter Two

Special Agent Olympia Smith straddled a bench under a banyan tree, facing her favorite foster brother, Ramon Ortiz. He was hauling black and white chess pieces out of the travel case he always carried with him—just in case a chess game happened to break out. For the moment, it looked like he was distracting himself from asking “What happened?” again.

She knew she wasn’t doing a good job keeping her cool. That was hard when, after being raised in a series of foster families, hoping and dreaming to one day learn something about her family, she’d discover that her birth parents were Belarusian nationals killed in a counterintelligence fuckup on the part of the U.S. government.

Of all the discoveries…

If anyone would understand, Ramon would. “I got information about my birth family.”

“Oh, shit. Now I get it.”

Olympia laughed. Ramon’s directness was one of his most charming characteristics, along with his general positive demeanor. Of course he’d understand about family things.

She told him about her meeting with Lev Korovin and about the flash drive the Belarusian honorary consul handed over. When she was finally done, he asked one simple question. “So what did you learn?”

“I haven’t checked out the drive yet.” Olympia gazed up at the towers before them. Filled with rich people—tourists or maybe Europeans who had bought second homes there—living the kinds of lives she’d never even bothered to dream of. “I don’t know if it has malware. I’m going to ask Hashim to open it. He works in digital forensics. Just…when I’m ready.”

“When you’re ready? How about now?”

Olympia looked away. “There might be information on that drive that could affect my security clearance, or my future at the Bureau, or—”

“Are you kidding me? This is your life, Olympia. It has nothing to do with them.”

“I’m an FBI agent. My life is not entirely my own.” She tried to redirect him. “Let’s…let’s just play for now.”

Overhead, the bright sun beat down on them, and Olympia was already sweating. They might as well be playing basketball instead of sitting around in the humidity. Good thing she’d thrown on a layer of sunscreen.

Wouldn’t want to get a burn while having my ass handed to me.

Olympia had never once beaten Ramon at chess.

Ramon was an unassuming young man with friendly energy and a nerdy charisma. But beneath that sweet demeanor lurked a cutthroat genius who absolutely loved beating her at chess. Which he always did.

Always.

They’d chosen an idyllic corner of this small park for their game. Their only immediate company were joggers around the perimeter and a family out with their dog. The dad sat on the carpet of green grass, pushing a stroller back and forth with his foot while he watched his wife unsuccessfully rein in the rest of the family—a boy, a girl who looked like she could be his twin, and a dog.

The boy, a kid of about eight if Olympia didn’t miss her guess, tossed a ball for the golden retriever “Muffin! Go get it, girl!”

“Muffin’s a graceful girl.” Olympia shaded her eyes and watched the dog flash across the grass, her long fur waving like wheat in the wind.

The dog scooped up the ball and ran it back to the kids.

“I’ll let you go first.” Ramon placed the black pieces, his pieces, first. He was uninterested in the public or anyone’s dogs. Then he organized her side of the board.

“You’re too magnanimous.”

“You need all the help you can get.”

Olympia ignored Ramon’s fastidious setup in favor of watching Muffin grab the tennis ball and turn back to the boy.

“Good girl. Hey. Muffin!”

Muffin had stopped mid-stride. She dropped the ball and sniffed the air, holding her body tight. Tense. Looking off into the distance like she sensed a predator. Or prey.

“Muffin! Come on!” The boy’s voice hit that magic high pitch that all children seem to muster. If Olympia’s ears hurt, then she was sure Muffin would flinch. But the golden retriever stood frozen, her eyes locked on the Ala Moana Towers across the street. Her beautiful fur waved as she trembled.

The little boy turned to his parents. “Something’s wrong with Muffin.”

“She’s fine.” His mother waved away his concern. “Probably scared of a squirrel again.”
But Olympia felt it now—an electric wrongness in the air. Her pulse picked up speed. This had nothing to do with squirrels.

Muffin barked once. Then again. Sharp. Urgent.

“Muffin!” The boy took three steps toward the dog.

Something was wrong. Muffin knew it, and Olympia trusted the canine. “Ramon, we need to—”

The shock force hit Olympia’s chest before traveling through her extremities like a wave. Heat, hotter than the sunlight beaming down from overhead, radiated across her skin. The bench lurched, launching Olympia into the air, and she slammed back down hard.

Everything went white.

“Ramon!” She reached up, grabbed Ramon, and hauled him down with her. “Cover your head.”

When her vision cleared, across the street, the south tower of Ala Moana spewed smoke and flames. Debris rained onto the sidewalk.

Shit, shit, shit.

Olympia’s ears rang with a cottony whine. She couldn’t even hear her own breathing.

A second later, sound slammed back in.

Sirens wailed. Car alarms shrieked. A man screamed for help in the distance.

He’s hurt. People are hurt.

Olympia pushed up from the grass. Her arms and legs were shaking, but she could work through the adrenaline.

Ramon was sitting up, too, deep-brown eyes wide.

“You okay?”

“Shit. Yeah.” He looked bewildered, then concerned. “You good?”

“Let me see you.” She examined his t-shirt, his shorts, his flip-flops. Nothing seemed ripped—fabric and skin all intact. No blood on him. No blood on me.

Olympia checked the family and their dog. The kids huddled on the ground, wide-eyed and stunned. Muffin circled them, barking and frantic, while their parents crouched beside them, checking for injuries.

“Ramon. Stay here.”

“But—”

“Just don’t move.”

She jogged toward the family. The stroller had toppled over, but the dad held the crying infant in his arms. Good. Tears meant life.

Olympia flashed her badge and squatted beside the mom, who had her arms around the boy and the girl. “FBI. Are you hurt?”

The woman shook her head. “I…I don’t think so.”

She turned to the dad. “And the baby’s okay?”

“She…yes. She’s okay.” The man could barely speak.

Olympia met his gaze. “Get everyone up and start walking. Get as far away as you can as fast as you can.”

“But our car—”

“You’ll have to come back for it. You need to clear this area. Now. Another blast could be coming.”

As the family mobilized, Olympia hurried back to Ramon.

“Get on your bike and go back to your dorm.”

“I can help.”

“Go. I won’t be able to focus if I’m busy worrying about you.” Olympia left no room in her tone for disagreement. She yanked Ramon’s bike off the ground and shoved it toward him. Then she unceremoniously pushed all the chess pieces into the travel case with a sweep of her arm. “Text me when you make it back.”

“There’s no need to be uncivilized.” Ramon scrambled to put the pieces in some semblance of order until she shut the case on him, almost pinching his fingers.

“Go. Now.”

Olympia ran across the street, where the bulk of the chaos was starting to unfold.

When she arrived, the first patrol cars and ambulances were already screeching to a halt. Dust and the acrid scent of burnt plastic hung thick on the air. Car alarms wailed from the parking lot. Somewhere down the block, the clink of firefighters opening hydrants echoed out.

A silver-haired woman jumped out of the lead car, golden lieutenant’s badge catching the light as she barked orders at the officers behind her. “A Group, clear pedestrians. B Group, find the injured. C Group, get everyone across the street. Sergeant Davidson, set up incident command!”

Officers and EMTs scattered to follow the lieutenant’s orders, and Olympia charged toward her with her badge out. “FBI. What can I do?”

“Same as them. Find the injured. Clear the area. If you find any rubberneckers, keep ’em moving.” The lieutenant pushed past Olympia without waiting for a response, yelling into her radio and flagging down an officer at the same time.

Yes, ma’am.

Chunks of concrete lay scattered every few feet. Twisted rebar jutted at odd angles. Broken glass was splintered or powdered under foot, mixed in with shredded insulation that floated down from above.

Snapshots of chaos burned into Olympia’s retinas. A shoe on its side near the curb. A dented laptop half buried in drywall dust. Pages from a book, singed at the edges, skittering across the pavement in the breeze.

Olympia looked up at the blast site as she navigated the rubble. Black smoke and flames billowed from a seventh-floor apartment. From here, she could tell the explosion was contained. Just the one unit, not the whole building. But the damage radiated outward—windows blown out two floors above and below, scorches streaking the facade like claw marks.

Building residents stumbled bewildered out a side door amid flashing lights and screaming smoke alarms. A young officer hurried toward them. “Clear the area! Cross the street and keep moving!”

The residents staggered forward, many of them so stunned they had to be helped along. A woman in a bathrobe clutched a cat carrier to her chest, her mouth moving but no sound coming out. An elderly man sat on the curb with blood running down the side of his face, waving off an EMT.

A teenage girl stood in the street in her pajamas, recording on her smartphone.

Olympia herded along the girl and several residents who’d joined her. “Keep moving, people!”

The small crowd reluctantly did as she ordered, but many heads turned to peer behind them.

Olympia couldn’t blame them.

A few steps later, a man’s croaking voice stopped her. “Help me. Help.”

She found the owner of the voice seated on the pavement. A jogger. His legs were stretched before him, and he braced his palms against the ground to keep himself upright.

Beads of sweat ran down his face, and he was breathing hard. “I…I can’t stand up.”

She dropped into a crouch beside him. “What’s your name?”

“Freddie.”

“Freddie. I’m Olympia.” She scanned him. No obvious bleeding, no trapped limbs. Nothing stopping her from moving him.

“What hurts?”

“My ankle. I was running, and…and…” He smacked his lips a few times, blinking rapidly. Pain interfering with his thoughts. “I don’t think it’s broken. I just…I was running, and—”

“Okay. Freddie, I need to get you out of this area, somewhere safer.” Olympia used his name to show that she was listening, to keep him calm. “Grab my forearms and use your good leg. I’ll help you up.”

Freddie hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the building. She kept her focus on the injured man as another siren wailed and a harsh rush of water spewed from hoses. Sprinkles hit the back of her neck. An officer walked past, leading a woman bleeding from the head.

“Ready?” Olympia’s eyes were locked on Freddie as she braced her feet. “One. Two…”

Freddie grabbed her arms, and she pulled him to his feet. He almost collapsed when he put weight on his bad ankle, but she hurried to the injured side so he could use her for support.

“See that ambulance across the street?” Olympia jerked her head back toward safety. “That’s where we’re headed. Okay?”

He managed a nod, and they limped away from the tower together.

Once she dropped Freddie with the EMTs, Olympia turned back toward the rubble.

Clear the area. Get people to safety. Do it fast.

She was halfway back to the building when an object caught her eye. An American Girl doll lying face up in the rubble. Sooty but intact.

Josefina.

The same doll Olympia had at her first foster home when she was four. Jared and Rose Stanton had been heavy on the words bad and no, but they’d let her have the doll. Scuffed. Bought used at a garage sale. But the doll was hers.

The sight of those familiar brown eyes sent Olympia back twenty years. Sharing a blanket with her foster sister, tucking Josefina between them, promising all three of them would always be safe.

Focus.

She had a lot to do.