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“You received a package.” The clerk handed over a brown envelope devoid of any information. Grace blinked. Heart already pounding, she opened it with fingers that weren’t quite steady. Inside, wrapped in tissue and quiet, was a jump drive.
Nash leaned in. “Is it?—”
She didn’t answer. She just smiled. For the first time since the explosion, her heart softened.
“Who dropped this off?”
“Some guy. I was busy. Didn’t see his face.”
They plugged in the drive in the hotel bar. Nash sat beside her, the screen casting a soft glow across his face as line after line of classified logs and encrypted files opened like a grave no one had dared to exhume.
It hadeverything.
Video feeds. Audio captures. Comms logs. Launch orders. Overrides.
Grace barely breathed as she watched the RED FERN clip play, her voice in that room, warning them, begging them to hold off. Piper's override. The drone ignition. The explosion.
Then GRAYFIELD. Nash didn’t flinch, but she could feel it in the way his thigh pressed into hers, in the way his jaw locked tighter as the data scrolled past. He watched himself almost die, watched Kento save him, and never looked away.
GRAVITY hadn’t let them down.
Not just the missions. Not just the truth.
Everything.
They sent the whole package to Caspari. Full transfer. Fully untraceable. Lynne would handle it from here.
Later that day, Grace stood at Gate C12, her suitcase clutched in her fist, coat hanging open despite the chill of the terminal. She’d waited until Nash’s flight was wheels up before making her way to her own gate. It was easier that way.
Cleaner. Her heart ached anyway.
There was too much she hadn’t said. Too much she couldn’t promise. He was going back to Black Kite. She had decisions to make about her job, but the rest of her life was still a question. There were things she needed to process beforewecould becomealways.
Her boots clicked against the tile, her boarding pass gripped tightly in her gloved hand.
Then two men in dark suits flanked her.
She stopped walking, instinct kicking in. “Can I help you?” Her voice was steady, even though her pulse skipped.
The taller one flashed a badge. “Special Agent Harlan,” he said. “You need to come with us.”
Her brow lifted. “Where?”
“The director wants to see you.”
She blinked. “Ames?”
Neither of them answered.
Hours later, after a flight in silence and an SUV ride in awkward stiffness, she was led into the official office at the DC Navy Yard. She hadn’t been here in almost a year. Cold marble floors. High ceilings. No chatter. The kind of silence that belonged to authority.
She was shown into a room. No escort followed.
The man who rose from behind the desk wasn’t Carlton Ames.
He was taller. Straighter. Calmer.
Grace froze.