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CAROLINE

Sophia picks up on the first ring. “Where are you?”

“About an hour north of the office. Research,” I add, answering the question before she can ask.

“Get to the office. Keep your phone on. Blackouts in the top five metro areas. The military is en route to protect remaining substations.”

Dorian says, “I’ll drive. You can have your hands free.”

It’s a good suggestion, so I head to his car.

“Is this a rental? Do you want to take mine?” But he’s already in the driver’s seat.

“Is everything okay?” Rory calls from the stoop.

“I’m going to leave my car here. I’ll be back to get it.”

Dorian rolls down the passenger window and says, “Tell her to stay home. If there’s an escalation, we’ll be back to get her.”

“Depending on what happens, we might not be able to get back here.”

Doomsday scenarios mean freeways turn into parking lots. Any travel completed by foot. An hour by car is a lot longer walking, and it would be dangerous.

“Trust me,” he says, reading my thoughts. “If we have to fly by helicopter, we will.” I need to remember that I’m with a billionaire. There’s no scenario that he believes he can’t manage. A scenario where his wealth doesn’t work for him is unthinkable.

“Stay here,” I shout across the yard. “We’ll be back. You have my number.” It’s not a question. We exchanged contact information before I left.

“Should I tell her to watch the news? Pack a bag?”

“Caroline, get in the car.”

I swing the door open and do as he says. Dorian hits the accelerator, and I wave goodbye to a concerned Rory.

“Caroline, who are you with?” Sophia’s voice reminds me she’s still on the line.

“I’m with Dorian, and I have you on speaker. We just left his mother’s house.”

I don’t miss the flex of his jaw, but it’s not a point of debate. She is his mother.

“Haven’t turned onto the freeway yet. How’s traffic?”

“You should be fine getting here. The cities with blackouts are under control. Still daylight.”

Daytime attacks are unusual, suggesting either desperation or a larger strategy we’re not seeing yet. Coordinated infrastructure hits usually come at night.

“Are you expecting an EMP attack?” Dorian asks.

“Worried about your satellites?” Sophia responds through the speakerphone.

“You should be, too,” he answers.

“It’s on our list of concerns,” Sophia admits.

A male voice shouts Sophia’s name.

“I’ve got to run. Come straight here.”

The call ends.

Dorian turns onto a major thoroughfare.

“I don’t know where I am. Can you use your phone for navigation? I need to make a phone call.”

“Maybe I should be driving.”

“Not the time to be a smartass.”

I glance up from the phone screen, expecting a glare, but there’s a hint of a smile.

“This car has nav, but it’s tied into the rental, and it’s not great.”

“No problem.”

I set my phone down so he can see the display and pick up his phone.

“Siri, call Nick Ivanov.”

“Calling Nick Ivanov.” Siri’s voice sounds eerily familiar.

“Did you use my voice for your Siri?”

He shrugs.

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

“You can’t,” he answers with a shy grin.

The line rings on speaker.

“Hey, mate,” Nick answers in his recognizable British accent. “I likely don’t know more than you.”

“I’m away from my computer. Driving Caroline to her office in California.”

“Ah, she’s with you?”

“Hi, Nick.”

“Hello, love. Is he holding you at gunpoint?”

“Not funny,” Dorian quips.

“Yeah, well, fair question. As you know, I’ve had two different teams tracking communications. And trades.”

“And?” Dorian asks.

“Your father. The person behind all of this is your old man. And I know, you told me, he’s got dementia. If you’re straight up, then it’s someone playing at him. I’m waiting for a helicopter, and I’ll be headed to London. I’m going over everything with MI6 and Interpol.”

Dorian reaches the freeway. Surprisingly, traffic is light. He floors the vehicle.

“I’m not sure how far back his decline goes, but he’s been messaging me,” Nick says. “Not too recently, but not that far back. When you gave me the news, it got me thinking. I went back and confirmed. Over the last two years, he’s messaged regularly.”

“I have his messaging app set up to interact with an AI assistant.”

“You do?” Why didn’t he mention that?

“He gets too flustered if he can’t send and receive messages.

But they’re cocked. So, to protect him, I created an app.

Uploaded his message history and email history to give his friends and colleagues some authenticity in responses, but really, it was probably unnecessary. He’s mostly nonsensical.”

“Sometimes his messages do feel cocked, but not AI cocked,” Nick says. “Any chance someone’s got access to his accounts?”

“I’m not sure. I’d tell you to trace it, but our current bet is someone on staff has been entering his office.

” Dorian side-eyes me. “Actually, I learned that I have a half-brother. He doesn’t live with my father, but he’s frequently present.

Can you have your team see what they can find about Geoffrey Cromwell? ”

“Why is that name familiar?”

“You’ve probably met him. He’s my father’s primary financial advisor.”

“He’s not with Bedrock?”

“No, but he oversees the team at Bedrock that handles my father’s investments.”

“We’re also researching the medical staff,” I add, wondering why Dorian would suspect the worst from his newly discovered brother. Although, in all fairness, Geoffrey Cromwell is now on my mental person-of-interest list, and I plan to request a background report on him.

“Who’s doing that research?” Nick asks.

“The company I work for. It’s called Arrow Tactical.”

“I’m familiar,” Nick responds.

“I don’t know who is pretending to be my father, but his symptoms began about three years ago. About two years ago, I brought in full-time staff. Minimized his interactions. It might’ve been eighteen months ago. I’d need to check my records.”

“And never said a word? How are there not at least rumors?”

“He’s ninety-two,” Dorian says, exasperated. “Most people assumed he retired and was taking a step back. And he was making a lot of gaffes. I think he knew it, which is why he agreed to move to Colorado.”

“I had wondered,” Nick answers.

“Well, whoever is acting as your father, if they speak, we’ll get clued in fast,” I say.

Dorian grins. “You bugged Dad’s office?”

“It was the assignment.”

“Well, all my communications with your dear father have been in writing,” Nick says. “Nothing on the phone. I assumed he might’ve a hard time hearing, so he preferred messaging. Assumed that given his age, he wasn’t as wary of the risks.”

“Can you send a note to our contacts, letting them know that Halston Moore has been compromised and not to trust any communications from him?” Dorian asks.

“Certainly. What about your father’s accounts? Does he still have access?”

“Geoffrey obviously knows his condition. He has full control of his financial accounts. I changed the password on accounts I was aware of, but if someone is in his office…”

“Nothing would prevent them from gaining access to everything.”

“Right.”

“What about your satellites?”

“That’s my company. Halston never touched it.”

The separation between Zenith and Halston’s empire could be crucial for tracking the source of the attacks. Classic intelligence work: follow the access points.

“So he’d have no access,” Nick clarifies.

“None. If someone contacted one of my employees claiming to be Halston, they wouldn’t get far. I’d get notified.”

“And that hasn’t happened?”

“No.”

I pick up my phone. “You’re good on nav, right?”

Signs are pointing us to Santa Barbara.

I don’t wait for his agreement but shoot a note to Sophia.

Me

Geoffrey Cromwell is a person of interest.

The message feels cold, clinical, reducing Dorian’s newly discovered brother to a data point in an investigation. But emotional distance is crucial when the stakes are this high. Even if it means treating your husband’s family as potential national security threats.

SF

FBI en route. To both Halston Moore’s and Geoffrey Cromwell’s addresses.