King nodded.

The judge smiled. “You know, almost every single time I’ve said that to a soldier, the response has been ‘fire away.’”

“Happy to disappoint.”

“Fiona Lane. Interesting name for a Native American.”

There was no question in the statement, but King thought the woman might be testing his knowledge of Fiona’s past. “Many Native Americans adopted more English-sounding names. Her grandfather renamed himself George Lane. Her grandmother became Delores Lane. Her father was also named George and her mother was Elizabeth. But Fiona’s middle name is more traditional. Apserkahar. It means Horse Rider.”

She gave him a good squint and then asked, “Is Fiona Lane in danger?”

“Absolutely,” he replied.

“From whom?”

“That’s classified, ma’am.”

“‘Your Honor,’ thank you. Is she safe?”

“As safe as she can be, Your Honor.”

“Is she safe with you?”

“I would give my life to protect hers.”

The judge’s eyes widened a bit. “I’m not sure I buy that.”

“It’s what I do, Your Honor. I would give my life to protect yours as well.”

That got a genuine smile from the judge. “Is this what you do in your line of work, Mr. Sigler? Risk your life to save others?”

“It’s the duty of every enlisted soldier.”

She looked back down at her desk, mumbling an affirmative but noncommittal “Mmm.”

“And what about her special needs?”

This brought a confused look to King’s face. The term “special needs” instantly made him think of people with developmental disabilities, but Fiona certainly didn’t fit in that category. She was brilliant, funny, and because she insisted on participating in many of the team’s training exercises, was more active than the average twelve-year-old girl. “Excuse me?”

The judge looked at a sheet of paper, head turned up, eyes looking down so she could read through the lower half of her bifocals. “It says here that she has type one diabetes.”

King tried to show no reaction and thought, Since when is diabetes a special need?

“Yes, Your Honor,” he said.

“Tell me about it.”

“Her diabetes?”

“Yes.”

“As you said, she has type one diabetes. It presented three years ago. While on the reservation she managed it with insulin shots. We now have her on an insulin pump.”

The judge nodded and made a note. “Last question, Mr. Sigler.”

He looked up at her, thankful that the experience was almost over. Accustomed to fatigues or T-shirt and jeans, the suit he wore—bought specifically for this occasion—was uncomfortable and hot. His black hair was neatly combed, rather than its typically slightly unkempt state. And the smooth skin of his face, usually covered in a thin layer of scruff, highlighted his strong jaw while revealing a few small scars.

She leaned over, looked him dead in the eyes, and asked, “Will you be a good father?”

King froze. It was not a question he’d been expecting. His own father had left when he was sixteen, three months after his sister, Julie, died in an air force training accident. And before he left the man had been far from a model father. As a result, King had never pictured himself having children of his own and dreaded the idea of being a father. If the rest of the team hadn’t backed out of the job, if someone else had recovered Fiona from Siletz, if she had not bonded to him so quickly, or if there were anyone else he felt could protect her as well, he would not be in this courtroom.