The hunt for a trove of secret information forces Bourne to decide who lives – and who dies – in this latest installment in the #1 New York Times bestselling series. A hacked database known as the Files has upended the intelligence community. Careers are being destroyed. Dirty deals are showing up on the front page.  Assassinations are spreading from Europe to the U.S. The new head of Treadstone sends Jason Bourne on a mission to find out who has the Files and get them back – or destroy them.  But Bourne isn’t alone in this race.  The Chinese want the Files.  So do the Russians.  And the only woman who may be able to help him is a treacherous spy known as Johanna – Bourne’s former lover – who sees the Files as the key to her own vendetta against Treadstone. Bourne has a rule for friends and enemies alike: Trust no one .  That rule may be the only thing keeping him alive, because the hunt for the Files soon takes Bourne inside a twisted labyrinth of murder and betrayal, where everyone has a hidden agenda. Including Bourne himself. Brian Freeman is the bestselling author of over twenty five novels, including the Jonathan Stride and Frost Easton series. His Audible original, The Deep, Deep Snow, hit the New York Times audio bestseller list. His novels have won the International Thriller Writers Award and the Macavity Award and been finalists for the Gold Dagger, Edgar, Anthony, and Barry awards. Robert Ludlum was the author of twenty-seven novels, each one a New York Times bestseller. There are more than 300 million of his books in print, and they have been translated into thirty-two languages. He was the author of The Scarlatti Inheritance, The Chancellor Manuscript , and the Jason Bourne series—among other novels. Ludlum passed away in March 2001. You're being watched! Johanna glanced across the street from the top of the Las Vegas parking garage and knew why that strange prickling sensation on her neck was warning her about surveillance. The Sphere arena, barely one hundred yards away, had taken on the look of an enormous green eyeball across its metal skin. The feminine eye, with long delicate lashes, stared right at her, winking a couple of times, as if it knew she was there. She shivered despite herself. Jesus, that thing gave her the creeps. It was three in the morning, and for now, Johanna was alone. The nearby office buildings were empty, and so was the parking garage. She'd used a Banish 22 suppressor on her Ruger Mark IV Tactical pistol to silently dispatch the lights over her head, leaving her mostly in darkness. But the whites of the eye on that goddamn Sphere still made her feel like the spotlight of a prison watchtower was zeroing in on her. A December breeze-cold for Las Vegas-blew desert dust in her face. Johanna's spaghetti-straight blond hair hung down to the middle of her chest, and a wool Golden Knights cap was pulled low on her forehead. She wore black jeans, tight on her skinny legs, plus a white tank top and a gray zipped jacket with extra-deep pockets to accommodate her gun and suppressor. Her aquamarine eyes, as pale blue as Caribbean water, surveyed the quiet corporate campus below her. Nothing stirred. No one moved in the shadows, and no headlights lit up the street. Two minutes passed. Then five minutes. Then ten. Callie Faith was late. Or was this meeting a trap? Johanna took precautions wherever she went, but these days cameras and scanners were everywhere, and facial recognition technology could peel away most of her disguises. She knew Treadstone was still looking for her. Shadow was still looking for her, and she wouldn't stop until Johanna was dead. Come on, Callie, where are you? Finally, on the street below her, she spotted the twin high beams of an SUV turning off Howard Hughes Parkway. The vehicle stopped short of the garage, using one of the handful of outside parking places. Moments later, the driver's door opened. With a Zeiss monocular, Johanna watched Callie Faith climb out from behind the wheel. No driver for her tonight. No congressional town car. Callie was using a Hyundai Santa Fe that Johanna had left on Clark Avenue two blocks from her downtown office. If anyone happened to run the license plate, the DMV records would show the owner as Martin Reynolds, who was currently away on a fourteen-day cruise through the Panama Canal. There would be no way to connect the SUV to Callie Faith. Neither Callie nor Johanna wanted a record of this meeting. The congresswoman's high heels clicked on the asphalt as she walked into the lower level of the parking garage. A couple of minutes later, Callie appeared at the garage's stairwell door and scanned the empty parking places. When she spotted Johanna in the shadows, she headed toward her. Johanna's hand tightened on the Ruger. Her finger curled around the trigger. She waited until Callie was ten yards away, and then she removed the pistol from her pocket and pointed it at the woman's head. "St