Take that fake medal off before somebody realizes what you really are!”

The rain had turned into a torrential downpour by the time our Suburban broke away from the Willard’s motorcade line.

Ruiz drove with tactical precision, maneuvering the heavy armored vehicle through the slick, labyrinthine streets of Southeast D.C., cutting through back alleys to shake off any surveillance tail. Behind us, two unmarked black sedans followed at a distance of three car lengths, their high beams cutting through the spray.

"Tails confirmed," Ruiz reported, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror. "They aren't federal. Metropolitan police wouldn't use unplated Chevy Impalas. Those are Sterling's private operators."

"They're going to try to run us off the bridge before we hit the Anacostia River," Michael said, pulling a standard-issue Sig Sauer from his shoulder holster and racking the slide with a crisp *clack*. "Lauren, stay low. Keep the hard drive inside your ballistic vest."

I pulled the reinforced Pelican flash drive containing the declassified Cerberus manifests against my chest, feeling the cold steel through my blouse. "I spent fourteen hours dodging mortar shells in the Hindu Kush, Michael. I’m not ducking in the backseat of an SUV."

I reached into the floorboard locker, retrieved my own service sidearm, and checked the magazine.

"That's my girl," Michael murmured, a fierce, prideful spark in his eyes despite the danger.

As our Suburban ascended the ramp onto the Frederick Douglass Memorial Bridge, the lead chase car accelerated violently, surging up our left flank. The front bumper smashed into our rear quarter panel with a deafening screech of tearing metal, making the heavy vehicle fishtail on the wet asphalt.

"Hang on!" Ruiz yelled, wrestling the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

The chase car rammed us again, trying to push us into the steel suspension cables. Through the tinted window of the sedan, I could see two men in tactical balaclavas. The passenger window rolled down, and the barrel of an automatic submachine gun emerged.

"Down!" Michael roared, throwing his body over mine just as a hail of 9mm rounds peppered our armored glass, spiderwebbing the surface into milky white fractures.

Ruiz slammed on the brakes.

The violent deceleration threw the chasing sedan ahead of us. In that split second, Ruiz stomped on the gas, utilizing the reinforced steel brush guard of our Suburban to ram the sedan’s rear tire. The PIT maneuver was flawless. The sedan spun wildly across three lanes of traffic, hit the concrete barrier, flipped onto its roof in a shower of sparks, and skidded to a smoking halt.

The second chase car slammed on its brakes, reversing rapidly to escape.

"Clear!" Ruiz shouted, breath ragged, guiding our battered vehicle off the bridge ramp and down into the heavily guarded gates of the Washington Navy Yard.

Two Marine Corps sentries stepped out from the guardhouse, rifles raised at low-ready, but when Michael flashed his retired command credentials and the blue diplomatic pass, the heavy steel barrier dropped immediately.

"Welcome to the Navy Yard, Colonel," the sentry said, eyeing the shattered, bullet-pocked windows of our SUV with wide eyes. "Admiral Vance—I mean, Admiral Richardson is expecting you at Quarters A."

Five minutes later, we were standing in the warm, mahogany-lined library of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Admiral Marcus Richardson, a towering veteran with four stars gleaming on his shoulder boards and eyes that had seen forty years of war, stood by the fireplace, holding a cup of black coffee. He looked at Michael, then at me, then at the blood dripping from a small cut on Michael’s temple where shattered glass had grazed him.

"You look like hell, Michael," Richardson said, his voice deep and rumbling like thunder. "What did Montgomery Vance’s brother do?"

Michael walked to the center table and slammed the Pelican flash drive onto the wood beside the declassified paper manifest from Cheyenne Mountain.

"Sterling Vance tried to assassinate us on the Douglass Bridge ten minutes ago, Marcus," Michael said without preamble. "Because he knows that tomorrow morning, Lauren isn't just accepting a medal. She's exposing Operation Cerberus."

Admiral Richardson’s coffee cup froze midway to his mouth.

"Cerberus?" the Admiral whispered, his face draining of color. "That project was scrubbed five years ago after the Shok Valley disaster."

"It wasn't scrubbed, Admiral," I spoke up, stepping forward into the firelight, my uniform soaked, my voice steady as steel. "It was tested on my squad. Sterling Vance authorized the homing beacon. He traded the lives of twelve American soldiers to guarantee a DARPA defense contract for his family's firm. And tomorrow, you're going to let me tell the President."

Richardson stared at the red grease-pencil signatures on the paper before him. He pulled on a pair of reading glasses, his hands shaking slightly as he read the classified logistics numbers.

For two long minutes, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fireplace.

Finally, the Chairman looked up, his eyes burning with an incandescent, righteous fury that outmatched even Michael’s.

"Get the White House Chief of Staff on the red line," Admiral Richardson barked to his aide waiting by the door. "And call the Provost Marshal of the Military District of Washington. Tell them to double the guard on the East Room tomorrow."

He turned back to me, snapping a crisp, immaculate salute.