Page 146 of Under Arthur’s Protection

Arthur leaned forward. “Shit, seriously?”

“Celine Bonicelli. Multitalented correspondent, freelance, based in D.C. She used a staff pseudonym for the Crécy piece, but the access she had to Arthur’s military service records narrows the source pool considerably. I cross-referenced her bylined work against the pseudonymous publication dates and found scheduling overlaps the magazine didn’t bother to obscure. Once I had the timing pattern, confirming her identity was straightforward. I’ve traced two of the three possible sources inside the military records system, but the third? It’s all pointing toward Rick Younge.”

Fuck. I looked at Arthur. “He was after you before Gwen stumbled over the Custodians?”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “Why would he have done that? It’s been years since Legacy.”

Morganna added, “I’ll see what I can find, but I don’t expect his motivations will ever be reasonable.”

Arthur nodded slowly and said, “Thanks, Morganna. Excellent work, as always.”

“You might change your mind when you see my consulting invoice.”

“Consulting invoice?” Arthur winced theatrically.

“Blame Merlin. He was an ass while he was here. Take it out of his paycheck.”

“Son of a bitch,” Arthur muttered.

“I’ll send the full dossier to both of you,” Morganna chuckled. “You’re going to like this one, Lance.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Check the dossier when you get it.” She hung up before I could push her on it, which was very Morganna.

“You need to hire her,” I said.

“I’m trying to.” Arthur fell back into a quiet conversation with Gwen about what to tell Caine-Ferraro and whether they should bring Sam into the circle of trust.

I put the chair back against the cabin wall and headed aft. I sat at the worktable and opened my laptop, where Morganna’s email was waiting for me. I clicked through to the attached document. Three pages. Celine Bonicelli, thirty-one, Northwestern journalism, freelance since twenty-six, published in half a dozen defense and foreign policy outlets. She’d embedded with a Marine unit in Helmand Province for six months. Impressive. That piece won a Polk Award. She was tenacious, often going after stories other reporters wouldn’t touch.

I brought up the image file at the bottom.

Her eyes. Light brown. Almost amber. Long auburn hair fell in layers around her face. Olive skin. A spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

My hand went still on the trackpad.

It’s her.

I knew her. But from where? When? Half a memory a lifetime ago.

Water.

Cold.

I stared at the photo. The freckles. The eyes. Those fucking eyes.

“Lance?” Arthur’s voice snapped me back to the moment. “What did Morganna have?”

I closed the laptop. Stood. Walked forward and leaned against the galley wall with my hands in my pockets. Casual. I was always casual. But those eyes. “The journalist is solid. Polk Award, embedded reporting, the real deal. Not some hack with a grudge.”

Maybe? Or was I forgetting something, and she was after me, not Arthur?

Arthur nodded, but Gwen was watching me.

“She’s also attractive,” I added, “which is probably why Morganna told me I’d like the dossier. Because apparently that’s all anyone thinks I bring to the table.”

Arthur shrugged one shoulder and said, “If the shoe⁠—”