My own father called me a traitor and ripped the insignia from my uniform in a Pentagon hall—then a hidden symbol appeared across my back, and an admiral stood, saluted me, and whispered, “Sir… you need to stop.”

Chapter 2

The file Reid handed me had been stamped with classification markings that turned the paper the color of old blood. Neil Hart’s name sat at the top in bold type, beneath a photograph of a boy I had known in a hundred other photographs before the Army taught me to read faces differently.

Sergeant First Class Neil Hart. Airborne. Helo assault. Killed in action seven years ago when his bird went down in the Hindu Kush, officially confirmed by recovered remains, buried at Arlington National Cemetery, Section 60, row eight.

I knew the exact grass. I had stood over it every June since, pressing my thumb against the letters of his name.

“You attended his funeral,” Reid said quietly.