I looked my father in the eye. “You thought you were reporting me,” I said, my voice echoing over the speakers. “But you just confessed on a live federal mic.” He froze. I opened the file and turned it so the cameras could see the photo clipped to the front page.

My father’s knees buckled when he saw who was really in the picture — a younger version of himself, standing beside a known foreign intelligence officer, handing over a briefcase at a dimly lit airstrip

Gasps rippled through the ballroom again. Reporters surged forward. Cameras zoomed in. My father’s mouth opened and closed, his bravado gone, his glass slipping from his hand and shattering on the floor.

“I believe this belongs to the Department of Justice,” I say calmly, handing the file to the federal agent beside me — one of the real ones this time. He nods and takes it with white gloves, carefully securing it in an evidence case.

“I don’t understand,” my father croaks. “That’s… that photo is doctored. It has to be. I never—”

“You never thought you’d get caught,” I interrupt, my voice steady but deadly. “But you underestimated the one person who’s been watching you your whole life. I knew you were hiding something. And three months ago, I got clearance to dig.”

The lead Army Ranger takes a step forward. “Jeremiah Pool, you’re under arrest for espionage, treason, and obstruction of justice.”

He tries to bolt.

For a man in his sixties, my father is fast. He darts toward the nearest exit, shoving aside chairs and guests. Screams erupt. Plates crash. But the Rangers are faster. In seconds, he’s tackled and pinned face-down on the polished marble floor. Cameras catch every moment. Flashes erupt like a battlefield of truth.

I watch him struggle, face contorted in disbelief, as if this world had betrayed him — when in truth, he betrayed it first.

The Rangers hoist him to his feet. He turns to me, eyes wild. “You were always just a pawn,” he spits. “You think you’re better than me?”

“No,” I say, stepping close. “I just played a longer game.”

And then I turn my back on him.

The ballroom slowly comes back to life, murmurs turning to hushed conversations, disbelief etched into every face. Some guests look at me with pity, others with admiration. But none of that matters. I walk off the stage, straight-backed and silent, as reporters yell my name.

I don’t stop. I don’t answer. I exit through the same doors the Rangers came in through, my heels clicking like a countdown clock now silenced.

Outside, the cool night air hits my face. I inhale deeply.

Major Ellie Grant, my right hand and the person who helped me piece together the web my father wove, is waiting beside a black government SUV. She hands me a cup of coffee. “I didn’t think he’d go down that easy.”

“He didn’t,” I reply, taking a sip. “This was just the public chapter.”

Ellie raises a brow. “There’s more?”

I nod. “The meeting I had earlier today — it wasn’t just with the Justice Department. It was with Homeland. They found offshore accounts. Names. Connections going back two decades. My father wasn’t working alone.”

“God,” she mutters. “He was recruiting?”

“Worse. He was selling.”

Ellie leans against the vehicle. “You going to testify?”

I nod slowly. “Next week. But we have a flight to catch tomorrow. Berlin.”

“Berlin?”

“That’s where the trail leads.”

She smirks. “You ever take a vacation?”

I shake my head with a soft chuckle. “Justice is my vacation.”

The next morning, I’m in a secure briefing room at Langley. Screens light up with classified documents, timelines, photos of foreign assets — and one recurring code name: Black Latch.

It’s the name my father used when he first entered the intelligence trade. The name buried deep in declassified files from thirty years ago — files someone tried very hard to erase.

I trace the lines between names and places, my fingers moving like a conductor’s baton. There’s a pattern now. Drops in Prague. Transfers in Singapore. A shell company in Argentina. Every string leads back to one central hub: an elite diplomatic cover operation operating out of the U.S. Embassy in Berlin.

“They’re still active,” Ellie says from across the room.

“And they know we’re coming,” I add.

“Then we’ll knock loud.”

We land in Berlin that night under diplomatic cover. The embassy is quiet, polite — the kind of polite that hides knives in its smiles. My clearance gets us in, but only just. I’m here as a military attaché on paper. In truth, I’m hunting ghosts.

We meet with Ambassador Trenton the next morning. He’s charming, old-school, and full of syrupy apologies.

“I had no idea Jeremiah Pool had any connections overseas. Shocking, really. Terrible what happened to your ceremony.”

“Spare me,” I say flatly. “He’s been laundering data through this embassy for years.”

Trenton stiffens, but his mask doesn’t slip. “Colonel, I assure you—”

“You’ll assure the Senate Intelligence Committee when I submit my report. In the meantime, we’re going to need access to all logs from the last seven years. Every flash drive, diplomatic pouch, and encrypted transmission. If you stall, we’ll shut this place down.”

His smile fades.

That night, our operation kicks into full gear.

Ellie and I comb through secured archives. Two more Rangers join us — military cybersecurity specialists trained to dig through firewalls like archaeologists unearthing fossils. And then we find it.

An encrypted data burst sent every Thursday night at 02:00 GMT, routed through a ghost server in Luxembourg, bouncing through over a hundred proxies before reaching its final node — a device registered to a fake identity in Zurich.

The contents? Personnel files. Troop movement logs. Advanced weapons schematics. Some of it outdated, some of it dangerously current.

My stomach twists. This wasn’t just treason. It was war-by-proxy.

“We need to move,” I say.

We follow the Zurich lead, posing as defense contractors. The Swiss authorities cooperate reluctantly, but when we produce the federal warrant, they stand aside.

We find the apartment.

Inside, it looks like a hacker’s lab — monitors, fiber cables, satellite phones. But it’s empty.

Whoever was running the operation cleared out hours ago.

Except for one thing.

Pinned to a corkboard in the center of the room, is a single photo: me. At my award ceremony. Smiling.

Scrawled across it in red ink: “You were supposed to be one of us.”

Ellie stares at it, then glances at me. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” I murmur, “they tried to recruit me. Maybe years ago. Maybe through my father. And I didn’t even know it.”

She swears under her breath. “They’re trying to rattle you.”

“It won’t work.”

But even as I say it, something cold curls in my gut. They’ve been watching me for longer than I realized.

Back in Berlin, Homeland confirms the safehouse is now under surveillance. Our job isn’t over. But the web is unraveling, fast.

I return to D.C. two weeks later, after testifying before the Intelligence Committee. My father sits in a maximum-security federal holding facility. He’s denied bail. His lawyer’s already resigned. The media have moved on to other headlines. But the scars are still fresh.

And then, late one night, as I sit alone in my apartment, a letter slides under my door.

No address. No stamp.

Just a single sheet of paper.

It reads:

“Your father was just the beginning. Welcome to the real war.”

My breath catches.

There’s no signature. No trace. Just a chessboard watermark at the bottom corner. Black Latch.

I pick up my phone. “Ellie,” I say. “We’re not done.”

“No,” she replies. “We’re just getting started.”

And this time, I’m not just serving my country.

I’m defending everything I’ve ever believed in.