They branded me a fraud in a courtroom overflowing with onlookers, and my own mother ensured everyone present swallowed it as gospel. With her palm pressed flat against the Bible, she met the judge’s stare and stated, “She was never an operative. The wounds, the commendations, every single piece of it was a complete fabrication.”

Before Viktor could issue a single command to his panicked men, the shadows themselves seemed to come alive.

From the ceiling vents, from behind the concrete pillars, and from the stairwells, green laser sights cut through the darkness, painting every single mercenary's chest with a glowing dot.

Director Thorne stepped out from behind a massive concrete pillar, flanked by twelve elite, heavily armed operators from Task Force Echo. They were fully geared, assault rifles raised, forming an unbreakable, lethal perimeter around the syndicate.

"Viktor Volkov," Thorne said, his voice artificially amplified by the acoustics of the sealed garage. "You are trespassing on federal property, threatening a protected asset of the United States Government."

The syndicate operatives slowly lowered their weapons. They were hardened mercenaries; they fought for money, not suicide. Staring down the barrel of an elite, unacknowledged military strike team, Viktor slowly lowered his rifle to the concrete and dropped to his knees, raising his hands in the air.

Federal tactical units swarmed the garage seconds later to mop up the mess, zip-tying the Volkov crew. The FBI lead agent—the same one who had arrested my mother—walked over to me as Volkov was violently dragged away.

"You run a hell of an unorthodox corporate transition, Ms. Vance," the agent muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Just cleaning house," I replied smoothly, handing him the silver briefcase, which contained nothing but old phone books.

Thorne walked over, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. He looked at the handcuffed mercenaries, then at me. A rare, genuine smile crossed his stoic face.