Outside, the redwood trees flew past in a blur of dark green and grey fog.

I looked down at my green Army uniform, the fabric stiff against my skin.

The name tag above my pocket read *Richards*.

It felt like a brand, a lie I had carried for far too long.

I thought of my father, Daniel Hayes, and the unmarked grave where his memory had been left to rot.

Soon, I would strip that name away forever.

“We are five minutes out,” the driver announced, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.

“Are we expecting resistance?” I asked.

“Gregory Richards is a businessman, Colonel,” the agent beside me said.

“But desperate men do unpredictable things.”

He pulled a black Glock from his holster, checked the chamber with a metallic click, and slid it back.

The hum of the tires on the wet asphalt grew louder as we climbed higher into the hills.

My phone vibrated in my palm.

It was a text from my mother, Eleanor.

*He knows,* the message read.

*He is in the study.*

*Natalie, please be careful.*