I reached for my phone and dialed a number I had memorized years ago—a contact in the federal government who did not answer to Senator Crane.

The line rang once, twice, and then a woman’s voice answered, sharp and professional.

“Department of Justice, Civil Rights Division,” she said.

“Rachel,” I said, my voice steady despite the hammer of my pulse.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“Colonel Hart. Evelyn.”

There was a brief pause on the line, the sound of papers rustling, and then her tone softened slightly. “Evelyn. It’s been three years. What’s going on?”

“I need a secure drop,” I said, watching the rearview mirror as I merged onto Interstate 85 North. “Not in Charlotte. Not near Fort Liberty.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I have evidence of systemic corruption, witness tampering, and civil rights violations involving the Prescott family,” I said. “They have the local police in their pocket, and my chain of command is being pressured by Senator Crane.”

Another pause, longer this time. “The Prescotts? The real estate and logistics dynasty?”

“Yes,” I said. “And my daughter is their prisoner in Mercy General.”