32 Walking into a Virginia courtroom wearing the Navy uniform my parents had once treated as

Dawn broke over Boston with the color of cold pewter. A bitter Atlantic wind whipped salty spray across the granite piers of the Charlestown Navy Yard.

Standing in the shadow of the tall wooden masts, the black hull of the USS *Constitution* rose out of the harbor water like an ancient leviathan of oak and bronze. She had survived British cannonades, Atlantic hurricanes, and two centuries of political storms. Now, her weathered timber held the spark that could incinerate the Iron Trident.

Nathan and I abandoned the truck four blocks away in a public parking garage. I wore an oversized civilian pea coat over my Navy blues, the collar turned high against the freezing ocean drizzle.

"Security is tight," Nathan observed, pointing toward the gated visitor center. Active-duty Navy sailors in dress blue uniforms guarded the gangway, alongside standard National Park Service personnel. But scattered around the public perimeter, loitering near coffee kiosks and park benches, were men in civilian windbreakers with acoustic earpieces and telltale concealed bulges under their left arms.

"Sterling Howell’s men," I murmured, my voice tight. "The Four-Star Chairman. Vance said Howell was the architect behind Marcus’s weapon shipments. He knew Vance had ties to this ship."

"How do we get aboard without triggering Howell’s dogs?" Nathan asked.

"We don't sneak aboard like thieves," I replied. "This is a commissioned naval vessel. I outrank the deck watch."

I shed the pea coat, handing it to Nathan. Beneath it, my service uniform was spotless, my white cover perched squarely on my head. I drew a deep breath of the salt air—the same air that had sustained me during six years at sea while my family tried to bury my name in Virginia.

"Wait by the drydock gate," I instructed Nathan, handing him the duplicate flash drive. "If they arrest me on the deck, you release Vance's audio to the Associated Press from the public terminal across the street."

"Evelyn—" Nathan caught my wrist, his eyes burning with fierce loyalty. "Come back off that deck."

"Always," I said softly, squeezing his hand.

I walked through the turnstiles with measured, steady strides. The tourists lined up for the morning tour murmured as I passed them, parting to let the naval officer through. At the gangway, the junior sailor standing watch snapped to attention as I approached, his hand coming up in a razor-sharp salute.

"Lieutenant Commander on deck!" the petty officer barked.

"Permission to come aboard, Petty Officer," I said, returning the salute with crisp precision.

"Permission granted, Ma'am!"

As my boots struck the sacred white oak deck of *Old Ironsides*, my pulse hammered against my ribs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two of Howell’s plainclothes operatives sprint toward the civilian gangway entrance, flashing black badges to bypass the park rangers.