Part 1

The gravel crunched under the bald tires of my pickup, a truck that had seen at least two wars and looked like it had lost both. It sputtered to a stop, the engine dying with a asthmatic cough that sounded just as tired as I felt. This was it. The NATO training facility. The most elite boot camp in the country.

And I, Olivia Mitchell, was walking in looking like I’d taken a wrong turn on my way to a soup kitchen.

That was the plan, anyway.

The faded jeans were from a Goodwill bin. The boots were scuffed, the soles worn thin, the laces frayed. My backpack was held together by a single stubborn zipper and a prayer. I climbed out, everything about me screaming *ordinary*, *weak*, *forgettable*. I was here to be invisible, to observe, to be the gray woman no one ever remembered.

It took less than thirty seconds for the plan to go sideways.

“Get out of my way, logistics.”

The voice cut through the sharp morning air like a rusty blade. Lance Morrison. Broad shoulders, a jaw that could cut glass, and the easy arrogance of someone who’d never been told “no” in his life. He didn’t just bump me. He *shoved* me.

My worn backpack, unbalanced and heavy, pitched me forward. I stumbled, my boots scraping the concrete.

I didn’t fall.

I balanced, catching myself with a quiet grace that was, perhaps, my first mistake. I steadied, my center of gravity locking instantly, a micro-adjustment so fast it was almost invisible.

But they weren’t looking for grace. They were looking for weakness.

A chorus of laughter followed. That sharp, cutting sound that echoes in places like this, places where fear and ego wrestle for dominance. I was their morning entertainment.

“Seriously, who let the janitor in?” Madison Brooks. Perfect blonde ponytail, lips painted a perfect, cruel red. She flicked her hair, gesturing at my faded t-shirt. “This isn’t a soup kitchen.”

I said nothing. My mission parameters were clear: *Observe. Blend. Do not engage.*

Inside my head, a different voice was running calculations. *Lance Morrison: 210 lbs, over-reliant on his right side, telegraphs his aggression. Madison Brooks: Narcissistic, requires an audience, weakness is her ego.*

I just picked up my bag, the movement careful, precise, and walked toward the barracks.

Their laughter followed me. It was fine. Laughter was just noise. It couldn’t hurt me.

But in exactly eighteen minutes, when that torn shirt revealed what was hidden beneath, every single person in this yard would understand. The commander himself would freeze mid-sentence, his face draining of all color as he recognized a symbol that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. A symbol that would change everything.

They thought I was the one in danger.

They had no idea.

The first day was designed to be a gauntlet. Captain Harrow, the head instructor, was a mountain carved from granite and rage. He paced the yard, his voice a gravel-slide that stopped riots.

He was sizing us up, the calculating gaze of a predator selecting prey. His eyes landed on me. And stayed.

He barked, pointing a thick finger right at my chest. “You. What’s your deal? Supply crew get lost?”

The group snickered.

Madison whispered, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “Bet she’s here to check a diversity box. Gender quota, right?”

I didn’t blink. I looked at Captain Harrow, my face as calm as still water. Inside, I was cataloging him, too. *A good soldier. A loud leader. But he sees uniforms, not people. He sees what he expects to see.*

“I’m a cadet, sir,” I said.

He snorted, waving me off like an annoying insect. “Get in line, then. Don’t slow us down.”

I got in line. I didn’t slow anyone down.

The mess hall that first evening was a battlefield of egos. The air was thick with testosterone and the clatter of trays. I carried mine to a corner table, away from the loud chatter, away from the competitive storytelling. I just wanted to eat.

The room buzzed with recruits swapping tales of their accomplishments, their voices growing louder as they tried to outdo each other.

Then a tray slammed down on my table, rattling my fork.

Derek Chen. Lean, cocky, with a buzzcut that screamed “look at me.” He’d spotted me sitting alone. He was performing.

“Yo, lost girl,” he said, his voice pitched to carry. “This ain’t a soup kitchen. You sure you’re not here to wash dishes?”

The group behind him erupted. Phones came out. I saw the red ‘record’ lights. Social media glory, built on someone else’s humiliation.

I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth. I looked at him with those same, steady brown eyes. “I’m eating,” I said simply.

He leaned in, smirking. “Yeah, well, eat faster. You’re taking up space real soldiers need.”

Without warning, he flicked his spoon. A wet glob of mashed potatoes splattered across my shirt.

The room *howled*.

I looked down at the stain. I felt the wet warmth seep through the thin cotton. I felt the eyes. Hundreds of them. Watching. Waiting.

I felt a flicker. A cold, black flicker deep in my chest. The part of me that *Ghost* had trained. The part of me that knew 6 ways to break his wrist before he could even pull his hand back. The part of me that could put him on the floor, gasping, before the laughter died in his friends’ throats.

*Observe. Blend. Do not engage.*

I picked up my napkin.

With slow, methodical movements, I wiped the mess from my shirt. Then I picked up my fork, scooped a bite of my own potatoes, and put it in my mouth. I chewed slowly.

I didn’t look at him. I just ate. As if he wasn’t there. As if he didn’t exist.

The deliberate, insulting calm of my response seemed to infuriate him more than any comeback could have. His face reddened. He stood there, sputtering, the star of a show that had suddenly lost its script. He scoffed, grabbed his tray, and strutted away, but the damage was done.

His friends’ laughter was weaker now. They’d seen him fail to get a reaction. I had taken his power by refusing to acknowledge it.

But I had also just painted a much, much bigger target on my back.

Part 2

The next morning was physical training. Burpees in the dirt. Sprints that burned the lungs. Push-ups until arms shook. I kept my pace steady, my breathing controlled. I was in the middle of the pack, exactly where I wanted to be. Anonymous.

But my shoelaces were a problem. They were old, frayed, and kept slipping loose.

During a sprint, Lance Morrison—the one who’d shoved me—jogged up beside me. He was the group’s golden boy, broad-shouldered and grinning.

“Yo, Thrift Store!” he called out, loud enough for the whole line. “Your shoes giving up, or is that just you?”

Laughter rippled through the group.

I didn’t respond. I simply knelt, retied the laces with quick, precise fingers, and stood.

But as I stood, Lance “accidentally” bumped my shoulder. Hard.

It was enough. It sent me stumbling off the path. My hands hit the mud, my knees sinking into the wet, cold earth.

The group howled.

“What’s that, Mitchell?” Lance said, his voice dripping with false concern. “You signing up to clean the floors or just planning to be our personal punching bag?”

I got up. I wiped my muddy palms on my pants. I looked at him.

And I resumed running. Not a word.

The laughter followed me, but it was hollow. I could feel their confusion. Why wasn’t I crying? Why wasn’t I angry? They were poking a bear, expecting a rabbit, and getting… a rock. A boring, unmoving rock.

It was driving them insane.

During a break, Madison sauntered over. “Olivia, right?” she said, her voice syrupy. “So, like, where are you even *from*? Did you win some kind of contest to be here?”

I took a bite of my granola bar. Chewed. Swallowed. “I applied.”

Her smile tightened. “Okay, *but why*?” she pressed. “You don’t exactly scream ‘elite soldier.’ I mean, look at your… everything.”

I set my bar down. I leaned forward, just an inch. Just enough to invade her personal space, to make her flinch.

“I’m here to train,” I said, my voice quiet, flat. “Not to make you feel better about yourself.”

She froze. Her cheeks reddened. *That* got a reaction. “Whatever,” she muttered, turning away. “Weirdo.”

The navigation drill that afternoon was designed to be hell. A forested ridge, a map, a compass, a time limit.

I moved alone. My steps were quiet on the pine needles. I didn’t need the map, not really. I’d memorized the topography before we even stepped off the bus. I have an eidetic memory. But I held the map, because that’s what a normal cadet would do.

A group of four, led by Kyle Martinez—a wiry, ambitious type—spotted me.

“Hey, Dora the Explorer!” he called. “You lost already?”

His group laughed, circling.

I folded my map. I kept walking.

Kyle wasn’t done. He jogged up and snatched the map from my hands. “Let’s see how you do without *this*,” he smirked, tearing it in half and tossing the pieces into the wind.

The others cheered.

I stopped. I watched the scraps flutter away. I looked at Kyle, my face completely blank. “Hope you know your way back,” I said.

Then I turned and kept moving, my pace unchanged.

His laughter faltered. I could hear them whispering behind me. “How does she know where she’s going?”

*Because you just tore up a piece of paper, idiot. You didn’t tear the mountain out of my head.*

I finished the course 20 minutes ahead of schedule, then sat under a tree and “waited,” making sure to look tired when the first group (Kyle’s, who had gotten lost) finally stumbled out of the woods.

The rifle disassembly drill was next. Two minutes. Disassemble, clean, reassemble an M4 carbine.

The cadets fumbled. Pins slipped from nervous, sweaty hands. Lance finished in a messy 1:43, grinning. Madison scraped by at 1:59, her hands shaking.

Then it was my turn.

I stepped up to the table. I didn’t rush. I didn’t hesitate.

My hands moved.

It was a script. A dance. Muscle memory from a thousand dark nights, cleaning weapons blindfolded while *Ghost* screamed at me.

*Pin out. Bolt free. Parts laid out in a perfect, surgical grid.*

*Wipe. Oil. Reassemble.*

*Click. Slide. Lock.*

I stepped back.

Sergeant Pulk, the grizzled instructor, stared at the timer. Then at me. Then back at the timer.

“52 seconds,” he said, his voice low.

The yard went quiet.

“Mitchell,” he said, “where in the hell did you learn to do that?”

I wiped my clean hands on my pants. “Practice, sir,” I said, my eyes fixed on the ground.

A lieutenant nearby leaned over to Pulk. I heard him whisper. “Her hands didn’t shake. Not once. That’s… special forces steady.”

Lance overheard and scoffed loudly. “So she can clean a gun. Big deal. Doesn’t mean she can *fight*.”

But the whispers had started. A few cadets watched me differently now. The “vagrant” could handle a weapon like a master armorer. The puzzle pieces weren’t fitting.

During this, a quiet cadet named Elena Rodriguez, who’d been watching me closely, slipped me a spare map. “You’ll need this,” she whispered, not meeting my eyes.

It was the first act of kindness. I took it, nodded once, and tucked it away. *Elena Rodriguez. Data point: positive. Not a threat. Maybe an ally.*

The terrain run the next morning was brutal. 10 miles, full gear. Madison was right behind me, hissing. “Pick it up, charity case. You’re dragging us down.”

At the halfway mark, she made her move. A deliberate “nudge” to my elbow. My foot caught a rock. I veered off the path, twisting my ankle.

Captain Harrow saw it. “MITCHELL! Broke formation! Squad loses points!”

The group groaned. “Nice one, Mitchell,” Lance yelled.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t explain. I got back in formation, my jaw tight, and kept running on the throbbing ankle. The pain was just another signal. I could file it away.

When the run ended, Harrow pointed at me. “Five extra laps. Move.”

I ran them. Every one. As I finished, gasping, Madison tossed an empty water bottle at my feet. “Hydrate with air,” she laughed.

I picked up the bottle. I crushed it slowly in my hand. And I dropped it in the trash.

The shooting range was the next day. Five shots. 400 meters. Five perfect bullseyes, or you’re out.

The pressure was immense. Cadets were sweating, shaking. Madison missed two. Lance hit four, cursing his “near miss.”

Then it was my turn.

“Bet she can’t even hold the rifle properly,” Madison whispered.

I settled in. I put my eye to the scope.

And I smiled. Internally.

The sights were misaligned. Deliberately. Someone—probably an instructor, maybe Harrow—had tampered with it. A test. Or maybe just sabotage. It was off by three clicks to the right and one click down. A significant defect. Enough to make a professional miss the entire target.

I didn’t adjust the scope. That would show them I knew.

I just breathed.

I held my aim three clicks left and one click *up* from the bullseye, compensating perfectly for the defect.

*Breathe. Squeeze.*
The rifle barked.
*Breathe. Squeeze.*
Bark.
*Breathe. Squeeze.*
Bark.
*Breathe. Squeeze.*
Bark.
*Breathe. Squeeze.*
Bark.

Five shots. Less than ten seconds.

The range officer stared at the target display. He blinked. “Mitchell,” he announced, his voice cracking. “Perfect score. Five… dead center.”

A colonel I hadn’t noticed before, an older man with steel-gray hair, leaned forward. “Who *trained* her?” he murmured to his aide.

Lance rolled his eyes. “Lucky shots. Let’s see her do something that *matters*.”

But later, the range officer checked the rifle. I watched from a distance as he put it in a vice. I saw his face go pale. He muttered to himself, “That’s not luck. That’s impossible.”

The whispers were getting louder. I was failing my mission. I was failing to be invisible.

The mess hall incident that night was the culmination. I was last in line. The food ran out. I sat at my corner table with just a glass of water.

Jenna Walsh, tall and smug, walked over. She dropped a half-eaten apple on my empty tray.

“Here,” she said, her voice dripping with pity. “Can’t have you starving, right? You need your strength for… what *exactly*? Carrying our bags?”

Her table burst into laughter. Phones came out again.

I looked at the apple. Looked at her. “Thanks,” I said.

I picked it up. And I took a slow, deliberate bite.

Jenna’s smile faltered. She’d expected tears. Anger. *Something*.

I ate the entire apple. Core, seeds, and all.

Then I set my tray aside, stood up, and brushed past her. My shoulder made the *slightest* contact, just enough to make her step back.

The room went quiet. They were watching. They were all watching. My cover was blown. My anonymity was gone.

The next morning was hand-to-hand combat.

Fate, or perhaps Captain Harrow, paired me against Lance Morrison.

Six feet of muscle and ego. He towered over me, a predatory grin on his face. This was it. This was the moment he’d been waiting for.

“I’m going to enjoy this, Thrift Store,” he snarled.

Before the whistle even blew, he charged.

It was a violation of the rules, but no one cared. He grabbed my collar with both hands, using his weight to slam me back against the padded wall of the training mat.

The impact was violent. It knocked the air from my lungs.

And I heard a sound. *RIIIIIP*.

The fabric of my old, faded t-shirt tore. It ripped from my shoulder, partway down my back.

For the first time, I looked vulnerable. Pinned. Helpless.

The squad burst into cruel laughter. “Look at that!” Madison jeered, her phone out. “She’s got tattoos! What is this, a biker gang?”

Lance leaned in, his face inches from mine, his breath hot and sour. “This isn’t daycare, Mitchell,” he snarled. “This is a battlefield. Time to go home, little girl.”

He was preparing to humiliate me.

But something in my eyes made him pause.

There was no fear. No panic. Just… a cold, calculating patience.

“Let go,” I said. My voice was steady. Quiet.

He laughed, but his grip loosened. Just a fraction. Overconfidence.

It was all I needed.

I stepped back, and the torn shirt fell lower.

And that’s when everything stopped.

The laughter died in Madison’s throat. The phone in her hand lowered. Lance’s grin faded, replaced by a confused frown.

The entire training yard went silent.

My back was now exposed to the room. And etched across my shoulder blade, in stark black ink that seemed to drink the light, was the tattoo.

A coiled viper, its body wrapped around a shattered human skull. Its fangs dripped venom.

It wasn’t the art that made them freeze. It was the symbol.

“What the hell is that supposed to be?” Madison’s voice cracked.

Colonel James Patterson, the steel-haired man from the range, was walking across the yard. He stopped. Dead.

His weathered face went completely, totally pale. His hands began to tremble.

He approached me, his movements sharp, almost robotic.

“Who,” he asked, his voice shaking with something I couldn’t identify—reverence? Terror? “Who gave you the *right* to wear that mark?”

The yard held its breath.

I stood there, my back straight, the torn shirt hanging off one shoulder. I looked directly at the Colonel.

“I didn’t ask for it,” I said, my voice clear in the silence. “It was given to me. By Ghost Viper himself. I trained under him for six years.”

The name hit the crowd like a physical blow.

Colonel Patterson *froze*. His eyes widened. Disbelief. Recognition.

Then, as if his strings had been cut and reattached, his body snapped to rigid attention. His hand flew to his forehead in a perfect, trembling salute.

An aide nearby whispered, “Sir, what are you doing?”

Patterson held the salute, his voice filled with awe. “No one… *no one* bears that tattoo unless they’re his final student. His *only* student.”

Lance stumbled backward, his face ashen. “Ghost… Ghost Viper? That’s… that’s a myth.”

Madison’s phone slipped from her nerveless fingers and clattered on the concrete.

The name was a legend. A ghost story. A unit that didn’t exist. Missions that never happened. Operatives who were declared KIA five years ago in a classified operation so secret most people thought it was a rumor.

Ghost Viper himself was the myth within the myth. The trainer who supposedly selected *one* student per decade.

Looking at Patterson’s salute, it was clear the legend was real.

“Sir,” the aide tried again, “Ghost Viper was classified as…”

“I KNOW what he was classified as,” Patterson cut him off, his eyes locked on me. “I also know what I’m looking at.”

I acknowledged his salute with a slight nod. Then I gently, firmly, removed Lance’s hands from my shirt. He didn’t resist. He was staring at the tattoo like it was a live snake.

“This is impossible,” Madison whispered.

Elena, the girl who gave me the map, stepped forward. “I wondered why you never fought back,” she said quietly. “You weren’t hiding because you were weak. You were hiding because you were *dangerous*.”

But Lance’s pride, his entire identity, was built on being the best. He couldn’t accept this.

“Bullshit!” he snarled, his voice rising with desperate, suicidal anger. “I don’t care what tattoo you’ve got! Prove it! In a real fight!”

The cadets looked at each other. They knew. They *all* knew he had just made a catastrophic mistake.

“Son,” Colonel Patterson said, lowering his salute, his voice a sharp warning. “I *strongly* advise you to…”

“NO!” Lance roared, his face red with humiliation. “I’m not being intimidated by some ink! If she’s so dangerous, let her prove it!”

He stepped back, raising his fists. “Come on, Mitchell! Show us what the great Ghost Viper taught you!”

I looked at him. The cold, black flicker in my chest wasn’t a flicker anymore. It was a frozen lake.

The careful blankness in my expression shifted.

“If that’s what you want,” I said softly.

I didn’t raise my hands. I just stood there, arms at my sides, as he circled me.

He charged. A wild, telegraphed haymaker aimed at my face.

I moved. Just enough. My head shifted two inches to the left. His fist whistled past my ear.

He followed with a left hook. I wasn’t there. A right cross. I flowed around it.

He was swinging at empty air.

“HIT ME!” he roared, his frustration building.

I was studying him. Learning his patterns. Waiting.

He threw another wild right, overextending himself, his balance compromised.

That was the moment.

I stepped *inside* his guard, not away from it. My arms slid around his neck in what might have looked like an embrace.

My left arm went under his chin. My right hand locked onto my left bicep. I squeezed.

A perfectly executed sleeper hold. No strikes. No drama. Just surgical precision.

I applied pressure to the carotid arteries.

His eyes widened in panic. He clawed at my arms, but he had no leverage.

I counted in my head. *Three… two… one…*

His eyes rolled back. He went limp. I held him for another second to ensure he was out, then gently lowered his unconscious body to the mat.

Eight seconds. From start to finish.

The training yard was absolutely, profoundly silent. The only sound was Lance’s body hitting the ground.

Captain Harrow, who had been watching with an unreadable expression, walked over. He looked down at Lance. Then at me. Then at the shell-shocked cadets.

“Effective immediately,” Harrow announced, his voice carrying absolute authority. “Olivia Mitchell is designated as an honorary instructor. You will learn from her. You will respect her. And you will follow her orders as you would mine.”

I didn’t smile. I just picked up my backpack, pulled my torn shirt closed, and walked toward the barracks.

The cadets parted for me like the Red Sea. Their eyes were down. Their laughter was forgotten.

My mission to be invisible was over. A new, far more complicated one had just begun.

The change was immediate.

By evening, the base was buzzing. The video of the “fight”—all eight seconds of it—was everywhere. The story of the Colonel’s salute was whispered in every corner.

The live-fire exercise the next day was… different. Harrow assigned me a team. It included Madison. She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t say a word.

As we moved through the urban assault course, Madison, out of habit or defiance, ignored my hand signal. She rushed a doorway. A tripwire alarm blared.

Harrow stormed over. “MITCHELL! Your team’s a disaster!”

Madison smirked, whispering to Derek, “Told you. Tattoo doesn’t make you a leader.”

I stood there, hands steady. “Madison broke formation, sir. I signaled her to wait. She ignored the signal.”

“I didn’t see any signal!” Madison lied smoothly.

Old habits. The group snickered, ready to fall back into the familiar pattern.

“Understood, sir,” I said.

But as we reset, someone—the aide from yesterday—checked the overhead drone footage.

The replay showed it all. My clear hand signal. Madison *looking* at me, then deliberately turning her head and charging the door.

Harrow watched the footage, his jaw tightening. He docked Madison’s squad 50 points and assigned her to latrine duty for a week.

The laughter died. Madison’s face went white. She’d been exposed.

Captain Harrow himself was different. The man who’d called me “supply crew” now watched me with careful attention. During briefings, he’d pause. “Mitchell? Your thoughts?”

It wasn’t just respect. It was caution. It was the recognition that he was in the presence of something he didn’t understand.

Two days later, a young officer approached me while I was cleaning my gear. He was nervous.

“Ma’am?” he whispered.

I looked up. The “ma’am” was new.

“There’s… someone here to see you. At the main gate.”

“Who?”

“I… I can’t say, ma’am. He’s waiting.”

I followed him. The walk to the gate felt long. Cadets saw me and *feared* me. They’d gone from contempt to terror, missing the ‘respect’ part entirely.

At the gate, a man stood waiting.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with military-short hair going gray at the temples. He wore civilian clothes—dark jeans and a black tactical jacket that looked deceptively casual. When he moved, it was with a controlled, lethal precision that I knew better than my own heartbeat.

Colonel Patterson was there, too. Standing at attention.

When he saw me, he cleared his throat. “Mitchell. This is General Thomas Reed.”

The man in the black jacket looked at me. And for the first time since I’d arrived, my carefully controlled expression cracked.

A wave of relief, of… *love*… so profound it almost buckled my knees.

I walked up to him. “You didn’t have to come,” I said, my voice softer than anyone had ever heard it.

General Reed tilted his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah,” he said simply. “I did.”

The cadets watching from a distance went silent. Madison, standing near the fence, dropped her water bottle.

Colonel Patterson cleared his throat, addressing the gathered crowd. “This is General Thomas Reed,” he announced, pausing for effect.

“Olivia’s husband.”

The words hit like a shockwave.

Madison staggered backward. Derek’s mouth fell open. Even Elena looked stunned.

Reed didn’t explain. He just placed a hand on my shoulder—the one with the tattoo—and walked me to my beat-up pickup truck.

He got in the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life, a sound far too powerful for such an old vehicle. We drove off, dust kicking up behind us.

The fallout was swift.

Lance, transferred to the medical facility, faced a review board. Attacking a classified operative—which I was now confirmed to be—was career suicide. He was discharged within the week, his dreams of glory ending in disgrace.

Madison’s trouble was more public. The videos *her friends* had posted of her taunting me went viral, but now with a new context. The defense contractor sponsoring her pulled their support, releasing a statement about “values incompatible with our mission.” Her social media accounts were flooded with outrage. She disappeared.

Derek was reassigned to permanent latrine duty.

Harrow faced a quiet meeting with leadership and was assigned mandatory retraining on leadership principles.

Elena, however, found herself recognized. Her simple act of kindness—giving me the map—was noted by Patterson. She was fast-tracked for advanced training.

The story of Olivia Mitchell became a base legend. A lesson.

But for me, it was just another Tuesday.

We drove for hours, Reed and I, in silence. The comfortable silence of two people who have nothing to prove. We left the beat-up truck in a long-term parking lot and switched to a black, non-descript sedan that had more armor than a light tank.

We were off the grid for eight months. A cabin in Montana. Peace. We fished. We hiked. I let the “Olivia Mitchell” of the boot camp fade. I let the “Viper’s Student” fade. I was just… me.

Until last night.

A quiet evening. A fire crackled in the hearth. Reed was reading.

An encrypted phone, one I hadn’t touched in nearly a year, rang.

I answered it.

The voice on the other end spoke a single phrase. “Code: Phoenix.”

My blood went cold. My grip tightened on the phone. Phoenix. Ghost Viper’s final operation. The one that had supposedly killed him.

“I thought Phoenix was terminated,” I said carefully.

“So did we,” the voice replied. “But we just intercepted chatter. The target from the original mission… he’s alive. And he knows about you.”

I closed my eyes. I looked at Reed. He saw my expression and his book snapped shut. The peace was over.

“When?” I asked.

“48 hours. The usual place.”

The line went dead.

Reed stood up. “How long?”

“I don’t know.”

As I began to process this, as I began to mentally prepare to become the woman with the tattoo again, the phone rang a *second* time.

A different number. A different agency.

“Mitchell. This is Agent Chen, DIA. We have a situation. Three of our deep cover operatives just went missing in Eastern Europe.”

“Go on,” I said, my voice already hardening.

“Before they disappeared, they transmitted one word. A panic signal.”

I waited.

“The word,” Chen said, “was ‘Viper’.”