“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I will.”

The judge looked at him for another moment and then sat back. “Very well. The court finds that Mr. Sigler is fit to be the foster parent of Fiona Lane and grants him temporary custody of her, effective immediately.”

“Your Honor.” The child welfare representative stood up. “The state would like to request visiting rights so that we might be able to keep detailed progress notes on Ms. Lane’s education, home life, and an accurate appraisal of her safety inside the confines of Fort Bragg. When the powers that be determine that Fiona is safe to live outside the protection of Fort Bragg and Mr. Sigler, we would like to find her a permanent home with a stable adoptive family.”

The judge turned to King. “Is this acceptable to you?”

King nodded. “Yes.”

Two knocks sounded as the judge brought her gavel down twice. “Court adjourned. You’re free to go, Mr. Sigler.”

“All rise,” the bailiff said loudly.

As King was the only person seated, aside from the court reporter, he stood and watched the judge exit the room swiftly. When she was gone, he stepped down from the stand and walked toward the back of the courtroom, not looking anyone in the eye as he did so. If he had, they might have seen the guilt that took all his effort to hide from the judge.

He’d lied under oath.

He dreaded the idea of being a father and knew it was one job he was not qualified for. But there was no choice. Fiona had to be kept safe; not because he cared for her as a father should, but because she was the only lead they had in the investigation of an event that took thousands of American lives. Solving that problem was his job, which made Fiona his job as well.

For now, King thought.

* * *

KING HAD SEVERAL meetings after the hearing and then went out for a drink. He told himself he needed to think, but the truth was he was afraid to go home. King, leader of the most elite Special Ops team in the U.S. military, was afraid of a twelve-year-old girl. His mind was a tangle of thoughts as he tried to figure out how he would handle this new, very foreign responsibility. Could he raise a child, even for a short time? He could protect her, sure, but could he give her all the other things a kid needed? Education? Affection? Love?

As he sipped his Sam Adams he decided the first thing he’d do was have only one drink. Wanting to get his mind off his worries, he turned his attention to the TV. CNN was covering, as usual, the rants of one Senator Lance Marrs of Utah—who looked like a wrinkly Pillsbury Doughboy with slick hair and angry eyes. After losing the last election to Tom Duncan, Marrs had made a career out of spouting fear-based propaganda that blamed President Duncan for everything from 9/11 to the nation’s financial woes that began two administrations ago. And the cable networks ate it up, adding a thick dose of bias and regurgitating it for the masses. I’ll stick with PBS, King thought, before requesting the channel be changed. He nursed his beer for another hour, giving up on it when the brew reached room temperature. He left the glass half empty and headed home, knowing Rook, who was babysitting, would be eager to start his Friday night.