His voice was calm, almost gentle, as he emerged from the stairwell. No gun drawn. Just a faint, sad smile.

Emma palmed the USB and slid it into the hidden compartment of her boot heel. Then she did something they never taught in training: she opened the apartment door and stepped into the hallway.

“Next family dinner,” he said, “we’re ordering pizza. No more missions on school nights.”

Mark stepped past her, drawing a silenced pistol from his waistband. He gestured toward the fire escape at the end of the hall.

“This one has the real schematics,” he said. “The one in your boot is a decoy laced with a location tracker. Give Control the fake. Let him run. Take this one to the man who sells falafel at the corner of Dizengoff and Ben Yehuda in Tel Aviv. Tell him ‘the accountant sends his regards.’ He’ll get it to the right people. The people who won’t sell it to a dozen different armies.”

“Dad,” she said, letting the word hang between them like a loaded weapon.

“I can’t,” Emma whispered back. “He’s not here for the drive. He’s here for me.”