32. Sloane
SLOANE
T he second file is smaller—unassuming in its digital presence, yet it makes my throat tighten just looking at it.
No fancy encryption this time.
No countdown timer ticking away precious seconds while a child's life hangs in the balance.
Just a simple text document with two names that slice through my carefully constructed defenses:
SLOANE CARTER.
DANIEL CARTER.
My finger hovers over the trackpad, trembling slightly. Part of me wants to close the laptop, walk away, pretend I never saw this. But I've spent too many years chasing ghosts to stop now.
I click.
At first glance, it's just a bureaucratic skeleton—dates, reference numbers, filing codes that predate most digital archives. But then I see it: the header that makes my heart stutter.
ORCHID PROTOCOL
The words hit me like a physical blow.
I've seen them before, years ago, buried in a heavily redacted whitepaper. One line had been blacked out so aggressively it actually broke the scanner trying to read through the ink.
I remember staying up all night, trying every trick I knew to recover even a fragment of what lay beneath that dark bar.
But here it is now. Uncensored. Untouched. Like a time capsule someone forgot to bury.
A whistleblower report dated 2006.
Signed: Daniel Carter
My hands go numb. The room suddenly feels too small, too warm, like all the oxygen has been sucked out through invisible vents.
I force myself to breathe—in through my nose, out through my mouth—the way my father taught me when I'd get overwhelmed during soccer practice.
Soccer practice.
The memory hits unexpectedly. Was that really only a few months before he...?
I shake it off. Focus on the screen.
The first paragraph is typical government speak—carefully measured words designed to raise concerns without setting off immediate alarms.
My father was always good at that, walking the line between revelation and revolution. But halfway down the page, something changes.
His voice breaks through the bureaucratic armor:
"If this is read posthumously, please know—I didn't walk away from the truth. I buried it to protect the one thing worth more."
My chest constricts.
"My daughter."
The words blur before my eyes. My knees give out and I grab Asa's desk for support.
All these years, I've carried his ghost like a torch—the brave journalist who died for the truth, who chose exposure over silence, principles over safety. I built my entire identity around his sacrifice. Made it my north star.
But I was wrong.
He didn't die for the truth.
He died for me .
My eyes scan faster now, desperate to understand.
The file lays it all bare—the precursor program, asset logs, surveillance reports.
Our house had been watched. Our phones tapped. My entire childhood mapped out by people who saw me not as a fourteen-year-old girl, but as leverage .
The warning came on a Tuesday. I remember because I had a big game that weekend, and Dad promised he'd be back from D.C. in time to watch. He never showed.
Now I know why.
The choice they gave him wasn't about truth or lies. It was simpler than that: expose Orchid Protocol, and your daughter becomes collateral damage.
So he chose.
He chose me .
And I've spent nearly two decades hating him for it.
I don't realize I'm crying until a tear splashes onto the keyboard.
The screen swims before me, but I can't look away. Can't stop reading. Can't stop the past from rewriting itself in brutal new colors.
I sense Asa watching, his quiet strength beside me as I crumble. His voice loses its usual edge.
"Sloane." Gentle, for him. "You need to keep it together. Lucia needs you."
"I can't... I can't do this, Asa. My father died because of me. Everything I believed—it was all wrong."
His hand hovers near my shoulder, unsure. "Listen to me. Your father made a choice. He chose to protect you. His decision, not yours."
The truth cuts deep, but grief still crushes me. I look up at him through tears. "Why didn't he tell me? Why keep it secret?"
"Because you'd have fought back," Asa says with cold logic. "You'd have chased the truth no matter what it cost. He wanted better for you—a life beyond all this."
I sink into the chair, head dropping to my hands. "What if he was wrong? Max, Lucia, Logan—I've put them all at risk." My voice cracks. "What if I'm not worth it?"
Asa goes rigid, eyes sharp. "Give up now and you prove Granger right. Prove you're exactly what he thinks—a liability. A weakness."
I flinch, but the harsh words hit their mark. He steps closer, solid but not invasive.
"Want to honor your father? Fight as hard as he did. Show Granger you're more than he expects. That you can't be broken."
I lift my tear-streaked face. "How?"
His cold intelligence weighs the question. "Start by standing up. Turn that pain to strength. Lucia needs you at your best. Not broken. Not beaten. The fierce journalist you've always been."
Something sparks in my chest—defiance, maybe anger. I force myself up on shaking legs.
Asa gives a slight nod that feels like victory. "Every second counts. Don't waste them."
I steady myself, resolve building. "Alright," I whisper, then stronger: "Alright. Let's get Lucia back."
He turns to the screen, running scans and tracking data. "Logan, it's all on you now."
Time stretches. My mind spins with the video files, with Dad's sacrifice. I want to dive deeper, understand it all, but I can't—not now.
Logan's voice comes steady through comms: "Hostage secured. ETA in ten minutes."
My shoulders drop with relief, and I catch Asa's subtle exhale behind his wire-rimmed glasses. The tech genius rarely shows emotion, but even he seems to feel the weight lifting from the room.
His eyes meet mine, intense but steady. "They're bringing her home, Sloane. Whatever comes next, we're ready."
But Dad's words flash on screen:
I buried it to protect the one thing worth more.
My daughter.
My legs give out and I sink into the chair.
She's safe.
The thought twists in my gut.
Who else might pay the price?
Dad traded his life for mine. Max's blood stains my hands. Logan and his brothers risk everything just by standing near me. Lucia barely escaped with her life.
All because I clung to some stupid principle about truth being worth any cost.
I was wrong.