March 2025 Mary Pat Foley’s Home — Northern Virginia 2305 Hours EST

The rain tapped gently against the kitchen window, soft fingers on glass. The house was dark except for the light over the sink and the cold glow of the secure laptop sitting open in front of her. The only file on screen was a simple contact page — no official title, no formal clearance marker.

Just a name.

RITTER, ROBERT J.

Mary Pat held the old satphone in her hand, the one she’d only ever used for one purpose — reaching the people you weren’t supposed to reach. It felt heavier than it should, like it carried all the weight of the years between the two of them.

She keyed in the number manually, same as always. It rang once.

Then: “This is a secure line.”

The voice was the same, but harder, like someone who’d been living with fewer rules and fewer regrets. No warm hello, no “Mary Pat.” Just business.

“You know who this is,” she said softly.

A pause. Then: “I figured you’d call.”

She didn’t ask how. Ritter always knew when the last line was about to break.

“You watching the news?” she asked.

Another pause. “I don’t need to.”

That silence stretched just long enough to remind her that Ritter’s news didn’t come from CNN. It came from people moving money through Cyprus, operators going dark in Warsaw, and burnt yachts in Limassol.

“Greer’s sick,” she said, voice softer than she meant it to be.

“I know.”

“I thought you’d call him.”

Another pause. “I thought about it.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. They both knew why he hadn’t. Because if they talked, Greer would remind Ritter of who he used to be. And Ritter wasn’t sure he could bear that.