“What man?” he asked quietly.
That question changed everything.
Because the moment he asked it, memories returned instantly.
Blood on concrete.
Rain against embassy windows.
Gunfire in narrow streets.
A photograph burned around the edges.
And one name.
Nikolai Sidorov.
The man I had spent six years hunting across three continents.
I looked at my father calmly.
“You don’t want the answer to that.”
Then I walked away.
The black SUV waited beyond the ceremony parking lot beside a row of palm trees.
Mercer slid into the passenger seat while I climbed into the back.
The driver pulled away immediately.
Only after the naval base disappeared behind us did Mercer finally exhale.
“I didn’t expect you to actually come today,” he admitted.
“I almost didn’t.”
“That would’ve made things easier.”
I studied him carefully.
Commander Daniel Mercer looked older than the last time I saw him.
More gray around the temples.
More exhaustion in his eyes.
But still dangerous.
Men like Mercer don’t survive Naval Special Warfare leadership positions without becoming experts at controlled violence.
“You said they found him.”
Mercer nodded.
“Forty-eight hours ago.”
Every muscle in my body tightened automatically.
Nikolai Sidorov.
Former Russian intelligence operative.
Weapons trafficker.
Architect of multiple embassy bombings.
Ghost.
For six years, intelligence agencies failed to pin him down.
Every time we got close, he disappeared.
Until Istanbul.
My jaw tightened.
Mercer noticed.
“He’s in Mexico now,” he continued. “Cartel protection near Sonora.”
Alive.
Still alive.
That fact alone felt personal.
Because six years earlier, Nikolai Sidorov destroyed my entire team.
Five operatives dead.
One captured.
And me left bleeding in an alley outside Istanbul while buildings burned around us.
Officially, the operation never existed.
Unofficially, it nearly started an international incident.
The CIA buried it.
Then quietly retired me.
At least publicly.
Mercer handed me a classified folder.
Inside sat grainy surveillance photos.
A man exiting an armored vehicle.
Older now.
Heavier.
But unmistakable.
Nikolai.
The scar across his jaw confirmed it.
I stared at the image awhile.
Mercer watched carefully.
“We’re assembling a joint task force.”
“I’m retired.”
“You were never really retired.”
True.
After Istanbul, the Agency reassigned me into deep analysis work under civilian cover.
No field operations.
No direct action.
Just paperwork and classified reports while younger agents chased targets I once hunted personally.
Punishment disguised as recovery.
Mercer leaned back.
“He asked about you, by the way.”
That caught my attention.
“What?”
“Nikolai.”
A dangerous chill slid through me.
“When our informant mentioned your name, he laughed.”
Mercer’s expression hardened.
“He said unfinished business bothers him.”
I looked back at the photographs.
Unfinished business.
That was one way to describe six years of nightmares.
The SUV stopped outside a secured federal building overlooking San Diego Harbor.
No signs.
No markings.
Just reinforced concrete and armed security.
Mercer escorted me through multiple checkpoints until we reached a private conference room.
Three people waited inside.
A CIA deputy director.
A JSOC colonel.
And a woman I hadn’t seen since Istanbul.
Maya Reyes.
Former field operative.
The only other survivor from my team.
For one stunned second, neither of us moved.
Then Maya stood.
“You look terrible,” she said.
I laughed softly despite myself.
“So do you.”
That was as close to emotional reunions as people like us usually get.
The deputy director cleared his throat.
“Agent Mitchell, thank you for coming.”
I sat carefully.
“You already know I don’t work for you anymore.”
“Technically.”
There it was.
Bureaucratic language.
The government’s favorite weapon.
The colonel activated a digital map.
Northern Mexico appeared.
Multiple highlighted locations.
Safe houses.
Trafficking routes.
Border tunnels.
“Nikolai Sidorov is facilitating military-grade weapons transfers through cartel channels,” the colonel explained.
Maya folded her arms.
“And intelligence suggests he’s preparing something bigger.”
“What kind of something?” I asked.
Nobody answered immediately.
Bad sign.
The deputy director finally spoke.
“We intercepted communications referencing a target on U.S. soil.”
The room felt colder.
“What target?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I looked at the photographs again.
Nikolai smiling slightly beside armed escorts.
Confident.
Untouchable.
Same as always.
Mercer stepped closer to the screen.
“We need someone who understands how he operates.”
I already knew where this conversation was heading.
“No.”
The deputy director frowned.
“You haven’t heard the full briefing.”
“I don’t need to.”
Maya watched me carefully.
“You’re afraid.”
That annoyed me.
Not because she was wrong.
Because she knew.
“I’m realistic.”
Maya stepped closer.
“Olivia, he killed our team.”
“I remember.”
“He tortured Eric for nine hours.”
My jaw tightened instantly.
“Stop.”
