The desert was a bruise of black sky and white sand, a place where heat-stroke memories went to die. Lieutenant Grace Morgan moved through it like a shadow with a purpose — small, deliberate steps, the butt of her rifle tucked tight against her shoulder, eyes peeled for a movement that would mean death.
They’d taken Colonel James Hale at dawn. The ambush had been surgical, leaving two Black Hawks smoking like carcasses and a dozen unanswered radios. Hale’s last order, barked over static, had been to split and run. Grace obeyed for two minutes and then refused to obey forever.
She was alone because the rest of Bravo had been either dead or dragged away. She was alone because retreat meant waiting for the enemy to execute their propaganda. She was alone because Hale had once thrown himself into a firefight to shield a rookie’s bad mistake and because he’d slapped a nervous hand to her shoulder that first night on deployment and said, “You’re not here to be brave, Morgan. You’re here to be decisive.”
