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  67

  Paige rolled out of bed at 6 a.m. on Tuesday. She had already been staring at the ceiling for nearly an hour. She pulled her hair back in a ponytail, brushed her teeth, and put on her running clothes—black shorts, a tank top, and an old black sweatshirt with a hood. A brisk September wind would keep the temperature down until sunrise.

  She fixed a cup of coffee for the road and then did her best Jason Bourne imitation, driving around the back roads of Virginia Beach for thirty minutes, checking her rearview mirror, making sure she wasn’t being followed.

  Eventually she wound her way to First Landing State Park, grabbed her backpack and a new small shovel she had stashed in her trunk, and started jogging down the Cape Henry Trail. She tracked the mileage with her GPS until she came to the large cypress tree near the spot where she had buried her computer and phone. She took twenty steps into the woods, then stopped and listened. She took another twenty and stopped, waiting and listening again. The sun was just starting to peek over the eastern horizon, filtering its way through the mossy branches of the cypress trees. Paige took another twenty steps and listened a third time. Nothing but the sound of crickets and the wind rustling through the trees. Forty steps this time and a final pause to listen. Finally she convinced herself that nobody was around. One hundred paces into the woods, she began to dig.

  The area looked the same as it had nine days earlier, but she had done such a good job that it was impossible to tell exactly where she had buried the stuff. She made her best guess and started with a hole about four feet by four feet, hitting nothing but roots. She moved to her right a few steps and started digging again. Then back to her left, where another hole came up empty. She methodically dug up a grid, forward a few paces, back a few paces, to the right, to the left. The sun warmed things up, and Paige took off the sweatshirt and kept digging, panic notching up with every shovelful of dirt. Occasionally she would hear somebody on the trail, and though they were out of sight, she stopped digging until they were past.

  After an hour of this, Paige left the shovel and her sweatshirt and walked back to the trail. She paced again from the same cypress tree, retracing her steps, making sure she was digging in the right place. She ended up at the exact same spot where she had started and for the first time began accepting reality. Somebody had found her computer and cell phone!

  She spent another hour digging until her grid was large enough that there was no way she could have missed it.

  Her first thought was that it had to be Daniel Reese. He knew this was her running trail. Maybe he had followed her out to the path that Saturday morning.

  But there was another possibility. The FBI had shown up the same morning that Paige had buried her stuff. What if they had followed her earlier that morning and then headed back to the condo and waited? What if Diaz and Vaughn had known all along that she had buried her computer? Everything else would have just been springing the trap.

  Or maybe her phone was tapped. Maybe they had heard Wyatt tell her to destroy her computer and ditch her cell phone and then followed her on Saturday morning. Maybe her computer was sitting in the FBI offices even now.

  Perhaps she had just watched too many movies, but Paige felt like she was living in a house of mirrors and trapdoors and optical illusions. It was ridiculous to think that she and Wyatt Jackson could litigate against the CIA and take down some of the most powerful people on the planet. Now they were paying the price.

  Later that morning she stopped by Landon’s office and told him the computer was gone. His advice was still the same. Let him call the U.S. attorney and explain. Like Paige, he thought it was entirely possible that the FBI already had the computer. The whole thing would be a much tougher sell now, but it was still possible they could work out some kind of deal.

  It was the first time that Landon had used that word, and it frightened Paige. “What sort of deal are you talking about?”

  “Nothing involving a guilty plea. Just an agreement to cooperate fully, and they would take that into account in deciding whether or not to press charges.”

  “You mean I would testify against Wyatt and Wellington?”

  “You would have to tell the truth on everything. Without the computer, it’s all we’ve got.”

  Paige didn’t have to think about that one. Landon wasn’t saying it explicitly, but he was suggesting that she trade her freedom for theirs. She shook her head. “I’m not turning against them,” she said emphatically. “There’s got to be a different way.”

  AL MAHRAH GOVERNORATE, YEMEN

  The small brick hut in the mountainous eastern region of Yemen had no air-conditioning, and the place was stifling. Saleet Zafar was meeting with tribal leaders, dispensing advice late at night, when he heard the buzzing sound that froze his blood. The others heard it as well. The talking stopped, and the men scampered from the house, climbing into trucks and running in every direction.

  If the tribal leaders had learned one thing during the constant drone wars in Yemen, they had learned that drones couldn’t hit moving targets. The lag time from the relay of satellite images back to the pilot eroded the accuracy of the missiles. But there was no time to spare.

  In the chaos, Saleet made sure his two boys got in a different vehicle, one headed the opposite direction from the truck he boarded. A minute later, he leaned out the window and watched as the drone circled overhead and fired, creating a crater in the road less than a hundred meters in front of the speeding truck. He could feel the heat on his face.

  The missile had destroyed the road, and the driver jammed on the brakes and began turning around. Saleet opened his door, rolled out on the hard ground, gathered himself, and started sprinting toward the mountains. He glanced over his shoulder, just in time to see the truck in which he had been riding get obliterated, consumed in a tower of flames. Another missile destroyed the brick hut. Saleet turned and kept running.

  A few seconds later, the drone whirled away, locked on another truck, and disappeared in the distance.

  Later that night, Saleet circled back and found that his two sons had survived. With tears of gratitude, he kissed them both on the forehead and told them how proud he was of the young men they had become.

  The three of them spent the night at the home of a different tribal leader. Saleet and the men stayed up all night—deliberating, watching, talking of revenge. After breakfast, with a vehicle waiting, Saleet asked for a few moments alone with his sons. He told them to take care of their mother. He had business to do and would not be able to see them, perhaps for a long time. He would pray to Allah for their safety, strength, and courage.

  “You must not be afraid,” he said as he watched their lips quiver. They held their heads high, trying to make their father proud. “Allah will give you strength.”

  He left them and rode away without looking back. He blinked away tears, feeling like someone had separated his heart from his body. Allah demanded great sacrifices. Saleet prayed that he would be equal to the task.

  68

  VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA

  The report filed by U.S. Attorney Mitchell Taylor was factual, decisive, and crisp. Based on the FBI interviews, he concluded that the deposition had most likely been leaked by one of the plaintiff’s lawyers. They certainly had motive. Moreover, while each of the lawyers denied ever speaking to Harry Coburn, Wyatt Jackson had destroyed his computer, Wellington Farnsworth had bleached certain files, and Paige Chambers had refused to produce her computer, though it was subject to subpoena. All other persons interviewed by the FBI had voluntarily allowed access to their computers and personal devices.

  The report and any appropriate sanctions would be considered by Judge Solberg at a hearing she had scheduled for a few days later. And all of this was separate from the grand jury that was now investigating other charges against Paige and her colleagues.

  Paige had steeled herself for the report, and Taylor’s conclusions did not surprise her. If anything, she was relieved that he didn’t go
into greater detail about the obstruction of justice charges he was now investigating or the grand jury he had convened. Judge Solberg had asked for a report solely about the leaking of the deposition of John Marcano, and that’s what Taylor had given her.

  But it didn’t take long for the press to jump on the story and blast Paige and her colleagues. The same reporters who had been pounding John Marcano since the release of the deposition now turned their guns against Wyatt, Paige, and Wellington. As one might expect, Wyatt took the brunt of the criticism because he was lead counsel and had a history of shady tactics. In almost every article, his old transgressions were summarized so that this new piece of red meat could be properly digested. The ineffective assistance of counsel petitions were trotted out again, including the one that described Wyatt napping during trial. There was even a quote from an old prosecutor who suspected that Wyatt had leaked information to the press in a different case.

  Paige couldn’t stop herself from reading the articles one by one and watching videos from the TV reporters. They were devastating hits, and Paige dreaded the upcoming hearing in front of Solberg, but she knew her team would survive. She thought about how the old Paige would have reacted just a few months ago. She probably would have curled up in the fetal position and refused to get out of bed. But hanging out with Wyatt and going through the battles in this case had already thickened her skin. Sure, she was still going to obsess over every article that hammered away at her reputation, and she hated every minute of it, but in her better moments she knew this attack would pass and that somehow they would manage to strike back.

  Wyatt was right about one thing—there was a certain nobility in the mind-set of the Alamo. If you’re going to lose, you might as well at least go down fighting. It’s what Patrick and Troy and their teammates had done. And it’s what Paige owed them on the most important case she had ever handled.

  Chick’s Oyster Bar was one of the most popular hangouts on the Chesapeake Bay side of Virginia Beach. It was located at the intersection of the Lynnhaven River and the bay, overlooking the water so that people could pull up to the dock and have the waiters serve them on their boats. It had a rustic feel, with picnic tables on the back deck, an old bar with local beers, and a small T-shirt shop to take advantage of tourists who thought they had stumbled onto a local watering hole. It was also the place where Navy SEALs hung out to meet local girls, so it featured more than its share of great-looking women.

  “I can’t tell you how many times Troy and I ate here,” Kristen said as she and Paige settled at one of the picnic tables on the screened-in back deck. Paige had called her earlier that day, after Taylor’s report came out. The two women decided to meet for dinner, and Kristen got a sitter. They had both been ignoring calls from the press.

  It was a cool autumn night, and Paige wore a sweatshirt, though the women at the bar were still in spaghetti-strap tops and short skirts. Lit up on the other side of the river was a mansion that belonged to Pharrell Williams, the famous R & B artist. Paige ignored the televisions hanging in every corner of the bar and restaurant.

  As so often happened when they got together, Paige found her own spirits lifted by Kristen’s sarcastic yet optimistic view of the world. Kristen had now decided that if she and her lawyers were SEAL Team Nine and the defendants were the Houthis, then the media must certainly be ISIS.

  The two covered a broad range of subjects that night. The boys were starting to do better. The other SEAL families were still very supportive. And they couldn’t forget that the case was still alive—almost miraculously so.

  Kristen asked about preparations for the Supreme Court argument, and Paige felt the need to be honest. Wyatt wasn’t very focused, and this FBI investigation hadn’t helped. But Paige promised Kristen that Wyatt would be ready by the time the hearing rolled around. It was the way he operated—always waiting until the last minute to prepare for anything.

  It wasn’t until nearly thirty minutes later, after Kristen had had a few drinks and the waitress had brought the bill, that Kristen circled back around to the issue.

  “Paige, I’ve been giving this Supreme Court argument a lot of thought today. And what you said earlier confirmed some things for me.”

  “What I said about what?”

  “Wyatt not being focused.”

  “No, I said he would be fine—”

  “Just hear me out for a second,” Kristen said. “All of this press coverage, and these allegations against Wyatt . . .” She hesitated, pulled her napkin from her lap, and placed it on the table. She pushed her plate aside. “I don’t think I want him arguing at the Supreme Court. He wouldn’t just be representing our family; he’s representing all the SEALs, in a way. I know he’s good at what he does—and he’s a fighter, something that Troy appreciated.”

  Paige could tell where this was headed, and she didn’t like it. For all his weaknesses, she had grown to admire Wyatt. She never had to worry about whether he would wilt under pressure or shrink back. Nobody else could take on the justices of the Supreme Court like him.

  “I just think you’d be better arguing the legal aspects of this case,” Kristen said. “Especially after today. Is that even possible?”

  Paige nearly choked on her drink. She had sensed that Kristen wanted to replace Wyatt. But she thought it would be with someone who specialized in Supreme Court arguments. “Replace him with me?” she asked. “Wyatt has a lot more experience than I do, and his credibility at the Court will be far greater. I mean, I just got admitted a few weeks ago. I’ve never even been to the Supreme Court, much less argued there.”

  “I’ve seen you in court,” Kristen said. “I read what you did at Marcano’s deposition. And from what you’ve told me, the arguments at the Court don’t really matter all that much. It’s the written briefs that count, and you and Wellington are doing a great job on those. I just think I’d rather have the spotlight on you than him.”

  They discussed it for another ten minutes, nursing glasses of water as Paige did her best to talk Kristen out of this. It wasn’t just a fear of making her first argument on such short notice, or a reluctance to disappoint Wyatt, but Paige legitimately believed Wyatt was the better choice. Sure, he was way too casual about his preparation—but she and Wellington would get that fixed.

  Unfortunately, the client had other ideas, and she was stubborn. They didn’t resolve the matter at Chick’s, but Kristen did ask a critical question just before they got up to leave.

  “As the client, do I get to make this decision? Or is this something the lawyers work out?”

  “It’s your call, Kristen. But I think Wyatt is the right guy.”

  Kristen agreed to think about it, and Paige thought she had bought some time. But after Paige drove her home that night, sitting in the car in Kristen’s driveway, Kristen brought it up again. “Paige, I know you don’t agree with me, but I think it’s the right thing to do,” she blurted out. “I want you to argue this case. We don’t have much time, and I’m not going to change my mind.”

  Paige stared out the front windshield and frowned. This was the last thing she needed on top of everything else.

  Kristen reached over and touched her shoulder. “You’re the best shot we have. I need you to do this for me and the kids and for Troy and Patrick.”

  “I’ll talk to Wyatt about it,” Paige said.

  The women hugged, Kristen thanked her, and Paige stayed in the driveway until Kristen had disappeared inside her house. Paige drove away thinking about the conversation she would need to have with Wyatt. She felt like somehow she was betraying him. Maybe she had been too critical when Kristen first brought the subject up.

  Paige had dreamed of arguing before the U.S. Supreme Court, but not like this. This entire case felt snakebit. She bit her lower lip, fighting back tears.

  It was nearly ten o’clock, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep if she headed home. And so, instead of stopping at her condo on Laskin Road, she drove by and headed to the ocean.
There were some things she had to get straight, and they couldn’t wait any longer.

  69

  Paige parked a few blocks from the beach, crossed the concrete boardwalk, and took off her sandals so she could feel the cool sand on her feet. There was a strong breeze blowing in from the water, creating small whitecaps on the waves. She pushed her hair out of her face and filled her lungs with the smell and taste of salty beach air, a purifying blend that seemed to clear her mind and reduce the pressure squeezing her from every side.

  She rolled up her jeans and walked down to the wet sand next to the rolling waves, sandals in one hand. She walked along the beach, letting her mind wander. The reflected light from the nearly full moon danced on the water and, together with the distant light from the high-rise hotels on the boardwalk, lit her way. There were a few tourists hanging out, some kids with glow-in-the-dark bracelets and light sabers, a couple holding hands, even some teenagers swimming unsupervised. Paige felt like she could pick out the locals—like the guy with a dog off-leash, in and out of the waves, chasing a tennis ball. But for the most part, the beach was deserted, Paige’s private ocean sanctuary. So she walked, thinking about the challenges ahead and feeling Patrick’s loss on a deeper level than she had in a very long time.

  Somebody had told her that grief was a companion on a journey, not just a moment in time, and tonight it walked heavy beside her, reminding her of everything she had lost. She longed to have him here with his arm around her shoulder, pulling her tight, telling her that everything would be okay. She would find strength from his confidence and security in his love. She would know that whatever was about to happen—whatever people said about her or believed about her—he would know the truth and he would love the person she really was. He would remind her of that, and she would know that nothing could tear them apart.