The next three days were a blur of activity.
Pierce made calls. Lots of calls. He called old colleagues, former subordinates, men he'd served with who'd risen through the ranks. He called congressmen and senators and people who knew people who knew people. He called in favors that had been waiting for decades.
And slowly, carefully, a plan began to take shape.
The facility in Virginia was called "Camp Holloway." Officially, it was a training center for military intelligence. Unofficially, it was where Reynolds kept his special projects. It was guarded, remote, and officially off-limits to anyone without clearance.
But Pierce had a contact. A young lieutenant named Harrison Pierce III—his grandson—who was stationed at a nearby base and had access to the area.
"He can get you in," Pierce said. "He can't get you out. That part's up to you."
Sal nodded. "How do we get twenty-six men out of a guarded facility?"
"You don't. Not alone. But you might not need to." Pierce pulled a file from his briefcase. "The men in that camp aren't prisoners. Not legally. They're there for 'observation and evaluation.' That means they haven't been charged with anything. They haven't been court-martialed. They're just... being held."
"So?"
"So if someone with authority showed up and demanded their release, there's no legal basis to refuse. The trick is finding someone with that authority."
Rosa spoke up. "My father. He had authority. He was a general."
Pierce shook his head. "Your father's gone. And his authority died with him." He paused. "But there might be someone else. Someone who can speak with the same voice."
"Who?"
Pierce looked at her steadily. "You."
Rosa stared at him. "Me?"
"Your father's name still carries weight in certain circles. There are people who remember him, who respected him, who owe him. If you go to them—if you speak in his name—they might listen."
"But I'm just a housewife. I'm nobody."
"You're General Antonio Ricci's daughter. That's not nobody." Pierce leaned forward. "Listen to me, Rosa. I knew your father. He was one of the bravest men I ever met. He risked everything—his career, his family, his life—because he believed in something bigger than himself. That's not something you inherit. That's something you choose. The question is: do you choose it now?"
Rosa was silent for a long moment. Then she stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the fields.
"My father used to tell me stories," she said quietly. "About Italy. About the old country. He told me about the mountains where he grew up, the villages where everyone knew everyone, the festivals where the whole town would gather and dance until dawn. He told me he left all that behind so I could have a better life. So I could be free."
She turned back to face them. "Those boys in that camp—they're somebody's sons. Somebody's brothers. Somebody's future husbands. They deserve to be free too."
She walked back to the table and sat down.
"Tell me what I have to do."
The next morning, Rosa Lombardi put on her best dress, pinned her hair up, and walked into the office of Senator Joseph Guffey of Pennsylvania.
She didn't have an appointment. She didn't have connections. She didn't have anything except her father's name and a story that would sound like madness to anyone who heard it.
But she had something else too—something the senator hadn't expected. Conviction.
She told him everything. Not about the experiment—that was too dangerous, too classified. But about the men. Thirty young sailors who'd been disappeared, held without charge, cut off from their families. She told him about Margaret Chen, waiting for letters that would never come. She told him about mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers who didn't know where their boys had gone.
She told him that her father—General Antonio Ricci, who'd served the United States in ways the senator would never know—would have wanted someone to speak for them.
And Senator Guffey listened.
When she finished, he was quiet for a long moment. Then he picked up his phone.
"Get me the Secretary of the Navy," he said.
Three days later, a letter arrived at Camp Holloway.
It was addressed to the commanding officer, and it bore the seal of the United States Senate. It demanded, in the strongest possible terms, a full accounting of the thirty sailors being held at the facility. It demanded access for their families. It demanded answers.
Reynolds read it in his office, his face unreadable.
Then he picked up his phone.
"Get me Lombardi's file," he said. "All of it. I want to know everything about that plumber and his family. And then I want to know how to make them disappear."
Sal and Rosa drove home to Philadelphia in silence.
They'd done everything they could. The rest was up to the senator, up to the Navy, up to forces beyond their control. They'd lit a fire. Now they had to wait and see what burned.
At home, Maria was waiting with Concetta, who'd fed her so many pastries she looked like a small round ball of sugar and joy. She ran to them and hugged them both.
"Pop-Pop! Mama! You're back! Did you fix the thing?"
Sal looked at Rosa. Rosa looked at Sal.
"We're working on it, bambina," Sal said. "We're working on it."
That night, for the first time in weeks, Sal dreamed of the sea again.
But this time, the Eldridge wasn't alone. Twenty-six men stood on her deck, waving. And in the water around them, thirty more figures—the ones who hadn't made it, the ones who'd died—floated peacefully, their faces calm.
Miller stood at the front. He raised his hand in a salute.
Soon, his lips said. Soon we'll be free.
Sal woke to the sound of birds singing and the smell of Rosa's coffee.
It was going to be a long fight.
But for the first time, he believed they might win.
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and then Add to home screen.