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For eight years I lived with Diego Vance believing that he was an ordinary interior architect, who ran a small design company in Coral Gables, washed her clothes, prepared dinner and endured her mother’s mockery about my alleged inability to give her an heir.
I thought my grandfather was an old shipping trader who loved the ocean.
And during all that time, my body was the sacred sanctuary that harbored the sovereign security of the free world.
“And Arthur Caldwell?” I asked in a monotonous, cold, and firm voice like the zero degree Kelvin.
“Your Uncle Arthur Caldwell was Emilio’s military co-director at Project Chronos in 1996,” Marcus revealed. “When the Pentagon decided to classify the biocryption and cancel commercial weapons contracts, Caldwell attempted to steal the servers from the main laboratory. Emilius discovered the betrayal and informed Caldwell of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“Caldwell simulated his own death in a military helicopter crash in the Persian Gulf in October 1996, fled to Zurich with a false identity and spent thirty years creating **Vanguard-Apex Logistics** and **Aegis-Apex Tactical**, a global black market union dedicated to hunting Emilio’s heirs.”
Marcus closed the folder with a deaf blow that resounded:
“Caldwell introduced Diego Vance to your life eight years ago. Diego's father, Arthur Vance, was Caldwell's representative in Miami. When you conceived in November, Caldwell learned that his thirty-year search had reached its climax.”
“He sent the *M/V Sovereign Tide* to the port of Miami to carry out the final harvest.”
Marcus slipped the secure satellite phone on the table:
“We have two options, Laura. We can take you and Dr. Salinas by emergency airplane of the Presidential Air Force to reinforced underground medical bunkers from Mount Weather, Virginia... or we confront them.”
