Her face was thin, her skin pale from lack of sunlight.

She was trapped somewhere, and Rachel was the one holding the key.

“The King’s intelligence service flagged the document,” Vance said, leaning closer so I could hear him over the engine roar.

“They noticed the font on the court-martial seal did not match the official Pentagon typeface for that year.”

“My sister is thorough,” I said. “But she is not a soldier.”

“She is desperate,” Vance replied.

When the plane landed, the European sky was gray and heavy with rain.

The air was much colder here.

A black limousine with diplomatic plates met us on the wet runway.

We drove through winding mountain roads for over an hour.

The trees were bare, their black branches reaching up like claws against the sky.

Eventually, the stone walls of the royal palace appeared on the horizon.

It sat on a rocky cliff overlooking a deep valley.

The driver took us through a side entrance, bypassing the main gates where reporters were already gathering.

Vance led me down a maze of stone corridors.