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“You detained my daughter without notifying State,” Heather said calmly, folding her arms. “You know that qualifies as actionable misconduct.”
Ian’s gaze didn’t waver. “She flagged a security breach as my operator’s comm went dark. We don’t detain allies. We secure variables.”
Heather’s manicured brow arched. “Cute. Did you rehearse that?”
“No,” Ian said. “That’s your department.”
The silence between them was subzero.
“She’s not one of yours,” Heather went on, voice low and sharp. “She was a child caught in something she didn’t understand.”
“On the contrary, she understood what was going on and sought assistance,” Ian countered. “That’s not a child. That’s a professional.”
“She was a risk to you and herself,” Heather snapped. “She chased a subject into three restricted zones with no clearance, no badge, no authority.”
“She had instinct.”
“And zero discretion,” Heather shot back. “Is that how you run things? You think that’s bravery? I call it damage.”
Ian’s jaw twitched, the only outward sign of the tension tightening under his skin.
Heather leaned forward. Her voice dropped to a razor’s edge. “She is not part of this world. I made sure when she left the NSA, she didn’t look back.”
“No,” Ian said evenly. “You buried her. She found something, and you let them burn her.”
Heather’s stare sharpened. “You don’t know what happened.”
“I know what didn’t,” he said. “You stayed true to Heather Bowman. You didn’t back your daughter. You didn’t ask. You didn’t care.”
Her hands clenched just once against the chair back. “You want her pulled back into your orbit? Fine. But don’t pretend it’s about her. You’re chasing absolution for her father. Not Claire.”
Ian stepped closer, voice steady but cold. “I promised Joseph I’d protect her. That didn’t mean silence. It meant truth I foolishly let you circumvent at every turn.”
Heather’s eyes narrowed. “And what happens when that truth gets her killed?”
Ian didn’t answer. He closed the folder—Claire’s incident file—and set it aside. “She’ll be released in twenty minutes. You can take her home. I’ll tell her your car is waiting.”
“No, if she wants to play wargames, she can find her own way home.” Heather turned toward the door but paused with her hand on the frame. “Be careful what you awaken in her, Ian.”
“She was never asleep,” he replied.
STRATEGIC ROOM – 0112 HOURS
The room had gravity, filled by chairs where men sat like they might not again if the answer was wrong.
Reid Hanlon stood just inside the door, posture straight but loose enough not to look like he was bracing. His tie was still half undone from the roof chase. Sweat itched between his shoulder blades, despite the room’s perfect temperature. This was not where he belonged.
Martin Bailey was at the far end of the table, with his arms crossed like a man carved from stone. Killian Moynihan leaned against the opposite wall, radiating the kind of executive calm that defied his ability to be lethal at fifty meters. Kieran Chase sat low in one of the chairs, elbows on his knees, alwayswatching and always tracking. And at the head of the room stood Ian Chase.
No one spoke. The last echoes of crystal and orchestral strings from the gala hallway had vanished. This room wasn’t celebration. It was triage.
Reid stood at parade rest, silently counting his breaths.What am I doing in this room?
Then Ian’s voice cut through. “Before we go further, there’s something you all deserve to know.”
Reid didn’t move. He felt it, not a tactical shift, but an emotional one. The kind of thing that lived under classified reports and ten-year-old NDAs.
Ian’s voice dropped. “I’ve been supporting Claire Bowman financially since her father died in 2005.”
