Vance did not drop the wrench; he swung it wildly toward Hayes’s head.

Hayes ducked inside the arc of the swing with the practiced ease of a veteran.

He caught Vance’s wrist, twisting it sharply downward.

The wrench clattered to the deck.

With his other hand, Hayes grabbed the collar of Vance’s shirt and slammed him against the terminal desk.

The metal desk groaned under the impact, and a stack of logbooks slid to the floor.

“Don’t move,” Hayes growled, pressing his forearm against the back of Vance’s neck.

Vance gasped for air, his face pressed flat against the plastic keyboard.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Vance choked out, his voice muffled by the keys.

“They have my sister.”

“Who has her?” I asked, stepping into the room and closing the door behind me.

I looked at the terminal screen.

The progress bar was at seventy-nine percent.

The file name at the top of the window read: *NLL_DEEP_TELEMETRY_04.DAT*.

It was the complete acoustic signature profile for our entire attack submarine fleet.

“The contractor,” Vance wheezed, his eyes rolling toward me.

“The representative from Kestrel Maritime.”