“Still pretending to be a soldier?” my brother laughed as my entire family humiliated me at our backyard barbecue, but seconds later, a V-22 Osprey landed outside, two officers saluted me, and my father finally realized he had no idea who his daughter really was. / Chapter 76 / 100

Chapter 76 - The Fall of the Western Relay

"We cannot allow that ship to reach open waters," Admiral Hayes said, his face glowing on the encrypted video screen from the National Military Command Center. "Commander Carter, we have a Virginia-class attack submarine thirty miles off his stern. We can put two Mark 48 torpedoes into his keel and sink the vessel before he has time to manually trip the detonators."

"Negative, Admiral!" I stepped directly in front of the screen. "You heard him. He has forty shipping containers packed with ammonium nitrate wired to a dead-man switch. If you hit that hull with a torpedo, the secondary blast will create a localized tsunami and devastate Portland and Bar Harbor! You’d be doing his work for him!"

"Then what do you propose?" Hayes demanded, his jaw clenched tight. "We don't negotiate with domestic terrorists, even if they happen to share your bloodline!"

"I’m taking a six-man Tier-One infiltration team aboard via low-altitude HALO drop," I said, strapping my sidearm back onto my tactical harness. "We drop behind his radar shadow, board the stern, neutralize the automated command deck, and sever the detonator circuits before he realizes we’re on board."

"That's suicide," General Vance countered from the side panel. "The *Leviathan’s Pride* is outfitted with Phalanx Close-In Weapon Systems that Carter Maritime purchased under civilian anti-piracy licenses. Any aircraft within three miles will be shredded by twenty-millimeter rotary cannon fire."

"Then we don't use an aircraft," I said, looking over at Miller. "Prep the Osprey. We’re going in low, skimming the wave crests beneath the radar deck, and dropping with closed-circuit oxygen rigs into the water."

"Elena," Vance said, his voice softening slightly with an uncharacteristic flicker of empathy. "This is your brother. When the moment comes... can you put him down?"

I checked the slide on my custom-built Kimber .45, letting the heavy steel chamber snap forward with a clean, metallic *clack*.

"The brother who mocked me at the barbecue died a long time ago," I said, locking eyes with the four-star general. "The man on that ship is an enemy combatant. And I don't leave hostiles behind."

Ten minutes later, the twin tilt-rotors of our V-22 Osprey thrummed against the dark tarmac of the coastal forward staging base. Rain was lashing across the flight line, whipped into a frenzy by a brewing Atlantic gale. The salty tang of the ocean filled the cabin as the rear cargo ramp ground open to receive my team.

Miller strapped himself into the jump seat beside me, his tactical loadout heavy with electronic countermeasures and signal-jamming bricks.