At first glance, the girl in military fatigues was almost what he imagined—thick black hair in a braid, full lips, a small, delicate face. And then the camera shifted to take in the rest of her face and he finally knew why her call sign was Medusa.

A mythical female monster so hideous to behold men died if they looked on her face …

The rest of her face was mottled like the cratered surface of the moon, bulging up around one of the dark eyes. Fleshy patches covered one side of her skull where the black hair had been seared off, the scalp scarred over. She must’ve been in some terrible accident. Her lips and nose twisted down as though they’d melted into the rest of her face. Tom forgot all about the fight in one mind-numbing instant as he gazed upon the disfigured girl he’d grown so obsessed with.

Then it came to him.

He knew how to win.

Tom almost couldn’t do it. Almost. Because he was vicious, yes. But this was only a weapon because she liked him, and because she knew he liked her. He knew this was crossing some line he could never step back from again.

Another part of Tom’s brain, connected to his ship, knew it was hurtling toward DC. He knew even now he was losing control of it as Medusa fought to wrest it from him. He knew they were plummeting toward the ground, and either he would win this or she would, and he couldn’t lose. He’d be done for. Blackburn would destroy him.

He aimed straight for her heart.

I see why you’re called Medusa.

He maneuvered the cameras toward her and let her feel him maneuvering the cameras, and in the Chinese Embassy the disfigured girl returned to her human body just long enough to snap open her eyes and look up toward the cameras. Naked horror blazed over her face.

And Tom knew he was the bad guy Marsh wanted him to be.

He could almost feel her scream through that other consciousness touching his, a blinding jolt of pure rage and humiliation tearing at his core. He swore her thoughts were screaming in his head.

You’ve ruined it! YOU’VE RUINED EVERYTHING!

Tom knew what she was going to do before her consciousness deserted his. There was no dodging it as she hurtled toward him in her suicidal, kamikaze attack—so he threw it all into fate’s hands and released his docking clamps, the momentum of his flight propelling the satellite forward toward the Smithsonian’s lawn just as Medusa’s vessel crashed into his.

The sensors fizzled into darkness.

Tom’s eyes snapped open and he yanked the wire out of his brain stem.

He was in the hidden room with Nigel’s unconscious body in front of the vast screen overlooking the Rotunda. The crowd was frozen, Elliot no longer fake ice-skating and Svetlana no longer screaming, everyone gaping at the rounded screen overhead, wondering if Tom had destroyed the satellite.

And then the screen flashed to the lawn of the Smithsonian, where the satellite lay smoking—but intact—near the smoldering remains of the two vessels. An American flag crossed with an Indian flag like two swords flashed across the screen, noting the winner.

Tom had done it. He’d won.

The Indo-American contingent roared to its feet, and Elliot gave a theatrical wave and a bow, basking in applause.

Tom’s head slumped back against the carpet. He lay there alone, thinking of the girl he’d humiliated. The girl whose secret he’d viewed against her will. She’d been the greatest warrior in the world, Achilles, and he’d driven his sword into her heel.

He couldn’t get Medusa’s dark, horrified eyes out of his mind.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

WITHIN MINUTES GENERAL Marsh and Lieutenant Blackburn snapped the door open.

“Excellent job, Mr. Raines—” Marsh stopped, shock on his face as his watery eyes took in the scene: Tom lying on the floor near an overturned chair, Nigel crumpled against the wall, a neural wire strewn on the carpet. “What happened in here?”

“That guy’s your leak, General.” Tom nodded toward Nigel. He looked at the other surprised face, and his gut contracted with sheer hatred for Blackburn. “Maybe you should stick him in your census device and see for yourself! Oh, and he tried to destroy the Spire, too. Just FYI.”

Blackburn and Marsh exchanged a look.

“I didn’t get a message,” Blackburn noted, his eyes sliding down to Tom’s. “You were supposed to net-send me if there was trouble, Raines.”

“I didn’t have a chance,” Tom said defensively.

Blackburn locked the door, then he and Marsh began working in tandem. Marsh lifted the overturned chair and hoisted Tom up into it, then he pressed a finger to his earpiece and spoke quietly to a team, ordering them to clear the corridor. Blackburn knelt down to check Nigel’s pulse and then turned to Tom. Tom forced himself to hold still as Blackburn deactivated his immobility sequence. He couldn’t bring himself to thank him.

“The exit route’s clear,” Marsh told Blackburn. “Take Harrison to the holding area, then get back before anyone misses you.”

“Yes, sir.” Blackburn hoisted Nigel up over his shoulder, and disappeared into the hallway with him.

Tom watched the door shut, relieved it was Nigel getting hoisted away to the census device rather than him.

After Tom’s quick explanation, Marsh congratulated him, clapped his shoulder, and instructed him to wait here until the Rotunda cleared out. Marsh dipped back out of the room, and Tom saw him reappear in the Rotunda, embarking on a hearty round of handshakes with various Coalition executives. Tom looked at the floor, not in the mood to watch the schmoozing.

An insane relief warred with a sinking realization of what he’d done to win. He didn’t even think of celebrating his first victory ever over Medusa. The thought of it made him feel almost sick.

Maybe that was why it was hard to muster a triumphant smile when the door opened again, and this time Dalton strode inside.

“Who invited you?” Tom said.

“General Marsh knows I’m a friend of your family.” Dalton kicked the door closed, hard.

Rather than challenge that, Tom remarked, “Guess you’ve heard about Nigel.”

“You surprise me, Tom.” Dalton whirled around and leaned back against the door, arms folded. “You live at the Pentagon, and yet no one’s told you about a doctrine called mutual assured destruction.”

“Major Cromwell’s talked all about it, actually, but our destruction’s not mutually assured, Dalton. My buddy Nigel”—Tom jabbed his thumb back at the empty chair behind his—“really had some interesting stuff to say before I clocked him.”

Dalton drew an audible breath.

Tom smiled at him with bald-faced insolence. “Yeah, he talked all about you getting him to leak CamCo names and IPs. I think there’s a word for that. What is it? Oh. Of course. Treason.”

“You can’t prove anything.”

“I disagree. You have one, maybe two hours tops before Lieutenant Blackburn sticks him in the census device and finds out all about you.”

“Yes, and he’ll pass his findings on to his superiors, who will speak to my superiors. A campaign donation or two later, and we’ll have an order from President Milgram himself sweeping this all under the rug.” Dalton gave a snakelike smile. “That’s the way the world works.”

“Fine. Then I’ll use the census device, retrieve my own memory of Nigel telling me Dominion’s plan to leak Combatant names—your plan, Dalton—and stick it on the internet.” He saw Dalton flinch like he’d just been slapped. Tom smiled. “That’s also the way the world works.”