He unclipped a black, ruggedized data pad from his vest. The kind of tac-pad that cost more than my parents’ car. His fingers moved over the screen with practiced speed, entering codes that I knew were far above my pay grade. He glanced at the contractor badge still clipped to her belt. “EVELYN ROSS.” He…
General Wallace went absolutely still. He wasn’t scrolling. He was reading. His face, which had been hard granite, slowly drained of all color. His eyes widened, just slightly. He read for maybe fifteen seconds. Then he looked up from the pad. He looked at her not as a General looks at a contractor. He looked…
The contractor… Evelyn Ross… returned the salute. It was clean. Economical. Perfect. “General,” she acknowledged. Her voice was quiet, with a slight rasp. The first word I’d heard her speak. Wallace dropped his salute. Then he turned. He turned, and his eyes found me. The disappointment was gone. The calm was gone. In their place…
“You are, at this moment, the single greatest failure of leadership I have ever witnessed in my thirty years of service.” I wanted to speak. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to die. Nothing came out. “You,” he continued, jabbing a finger at my chest, “in an act of arrogance so profound it borders on…
He was shaking now, his control finally breaking. “You threatened a woman who has forgotten more about combat than you will ever know. You are a disgrace to that uniform. You are a disgrace to this institution.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “You failed as a cadet. You failed as a soldier. But worst…
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…
By the time she reached the perimeter under cover of night, the compound was a skeleton of lights and smoldering vehicles. Men in loose dark fatigues patrolled like wolves; lanterns swayed, sending veins of orange across clay walls. She counted forty fighters with her scope. She counted one life she would risk. A child’s voice…
Inside, a courtyard hummed with activity. Men crowded around a central tent where Hale sat bound to a folding chair, the rope biting into his wrists. His uniform was torn; his jaw had a bruise that made his face an honest map of pain. When their eyes locked across the chaos, something like recognition crossed…
She reached the tent where Hale sat. The guards were two men she’d seen laughing earlier; they were drunk on the power of having a captive. Grace slid a strip of cloth in the doorway and feigned a limp, collapsing in their path. She let the adrenaline carry her through the lie — the touch…
“You cut the feed?” Hale whispered. She shook her head. “Cutting it bought you a minute.” “A minute buys us survival.” He reached for his uniform and tore off the rank insignia, stuffing it into his boot. “What do you need?” “A path to the perimeter. And a countdown.” She checked her watch. Twenty minutes…