The engines whined to life, a deep, rising scream that vibrated through the cockpit into my very bones. I watched through the canopy as General Rowan retreated to the observation tower, a sterile figure surrounded by his sharks—his personal security detail.

There was no sign of Sergeant Thorne.

Her absence was a klaxon. It screamed louder than the twin GEs spooling up behind me.

I taxied to the runway, my movements purely mechanical. My mind was elsewhere, replaying the note. Check canon feed synchronization. L. Who was ‘L’? It had to be Lana Thorne. It was a warning. My gut, honed by five years in intel, told me this wasn’t just a precaution. It was a lifeline.

The pre-flight checks were green. Everything was green. The cannon feed synchronization, according to the digital instruments, was perfect. Flawless.

But a professionally executed sabotage would look flawless. It would be designed to fail only under the specific, high-stress conditions of the test.

I made a mental adjustment. A two-second pause between firing sequences. Just as she’d advised. It wasn’t in the official test protocol. It was an anomaly I’d have to explain later… if I lived to explain it.

“Tower, this is Warthog 3-1, ready for departure.”

“Warthog 3-1, you are cleared for takeoff, runway 2-2. Climb to testing altitude.”

I pushed the throttles forward. The A-10, heavy with fuel and 30mm depleted uranium rounds, lunged forward. It was a beast, a flying cannon, and today, it felt like my coffin.

The ascent into the pale Nevada sky was smooth. Below me, the weapons range spread out like a sterile map, empty of all personnel for this ‘VIP test.’

My awareness was razor-sharp. I wasn’t just flying an aircraft; I was flying a potential bomb. My encrypted data streamed back to the base, back to Rowan, every move I made, every system status, monitored in real-time.

I banked toward the designated target area. The protocol was simple: three firing sequences. Various altitudes, various approaches.

The first two sequences were flawless. I completed them by the book. The GAU-8’s distinctive BRRRRRRT tore through the silence, a sound I’d heard a thousand times. It was the sound of righteous fury, of close air support saving lives. Today, it sounded ominous. The depleted uranium rounds slammed into the target zone, kicking up clouds of dust.

Everything normal. Everything perfect.

My confidence wavered. Had I imagined it? Was I letting Rowan’s strange intensity get to me? Was Thorne just an overly cautious mechanic?

For the final sequence, I initiated a steep dive, simulating a close-air support attack run. This was the moment of maximum stress on the system. The G-forces pressed me into my seat. The ground rushed up.

My finger tightened on the trigger. Now.

I hesitated. A fraction of a second. A single heartbeat.

Check canon feed synchronization.

I deliberately broke protocol. I implemented the two-second pause Thorne had recommended.

My thumb mashed the trigger.

The cannon roared. The BRRRRRRT slammed my body back. One second. Two seconds.

Then—clunk.

Silence.

The recoil vanished. The plane, suddenly losing the massive opposing force, pitched forward violently. My helmet slammed against the canopy. Red lights flashed across my console. GUN MALFUNCTION. FEED JAM.

My heart stopped.

If I hadn’t paused, the malfunction would have happened mid-burst. A high-speed feed jam at this angle, at this velocity… it would have been catastrophic. A turbine flameout. A catastrophic failure of the weapon system that could tear the wing apart. I’d be a smoking crater in the desert floor.

I fought the controls, pulling the A-10 out of the dive, my hands shaking uncontrollably.

The cannon, as if clearing its throat, suddenly roared back to life. A short, half-second burst erupted before I could release the trigger.

It was sabotage.

Professional, expert-level sabotage. Designed to appear as a mechanical failure under high-G load. Designed to kill the pilot.

Designed to kill me.

I completed the mission profile, my mind racing behind a mask of calm. The return flight was the longest of my life. The aircraft had been tampered with after Thorne’s maintenance.

Someone wanted this test to fail. Spectacu­larly. With me in the cockpit.

The question wasn’t if. The question was why.

General Rowan was waiting near the hangar as I completed the post-flight procedures. His face was a perfect mask of professional concern.

“Impressive display, Colonel,” he said, his voice smooth as polished granite. “The cannon performed well.”

I unhooked my helmet, my hands still not perfectly steady. I studied his reaction, searching for a crack. “A slight synchronization issue on the final run, General. Nothing critical.”

His smile was thin, a reptile’s smile. “Mechanical systems are never perfect. Fortunate you’re such an experienced pilot.”

I held his gaze. “Fortunate,” I agreed, my voice flat. “Fortunate someone knew to check the synchronization specifically. Almost as if they anticipated the problem.”

The smile on Rowan’s face didn’t fade, but it tightened. The coldness in his eyes intensified. “Thorough maintenance protocols are essential,” he said.

He then delivered the line I was already expecting. “Speaking of which, I’d like to interview your weapons specialist personally. Sergeant Thorne. Correct?”

“She’s assigned to the afternoon shift today,” I said, my mind already working, calculating. “I’ll arrange a meeting.”

“No need for formalities.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I prefer casual conversations with enlisted personnel. Gets better results.”

He wanted her isolated. Away from me. Away from official channels.

“As you wish, General,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “I’ll have her personnel file delivered to your temporary office.”

Rowan checked his watch, a picture of bureaucratic efficiency. “Already taken care of. I have a secure call with the Pentagon in 15 minutes. We’ll continue our discussion at the briefing this afternoon.”

He departed, his security detail falling in around him like wolves.

I didn’t move. I stood by the A-10, the heat of its engines washing over me. I conducted my own inspection of the cannon system right there on the tarmac.

The sabotage was brilliant. Subtle. Expert-level. Designed to appear as a simple, tragic mechanical failure during high-stress operation. Someone with intimate, almost loving knowledge of the GAU-8 system.

Someone with access after Thorne’s maintenance was complete.

I pulled the maintenance log.

After Thorne’s signature, only one other name.

Airman First Class Broderick. Routine inspection at 04:30 this morning.

Unauthorized. Unscheduled. An hour before my own pre-flight.

The maintenance hangar was quiet during the midday lull. The shift change meant fewer eyes, fewer witnesses. I found Broderick in the tool crib, inventorying equipment with a studied disinterest that failed to hide the nervous energy vibrating off him.

He straightened when he saw me, his eyes widening. “Colonel, sir. Something I can help you with?”

I closed the door behind him. The small room suddenly felt like a trap.

“AC-358,” I said, my voice quiet. “You performed unscheduled maintenance this morning.”

His expression flickered. Surprise, then calculation, then fear. “Just a visual inspection, sir. Standard procedure before important flights.”

“At 04:30? Without authorization?”

“I… I wanted to be thorough, sir. Given the VIP nature of the test.” The lie was clumsy, pathetic.

I stepped closer, invading his space. He smelled of fear-sweat and cheap coffee. “Someone tampered with the cannon synchronization system,” I said, still quiet. “Professional work. Nearly undetectable.”

“Sir, I… I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying anything, Airman.” My voice went hard, the conversational tone dropping away. “I’m stating facts. The aircraft was sabotaged after Sergeant Thorne’s maintenance was complete. The flight recorder data confirms it.”

Broderick swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It… it must have been a mechanical failure, sir.”

“The same failure,” I said, pinning him with my gaze, “that someone warned me about before takeoff.”

I watched the realization dawn on his face. The blood drained from it. He knew he was caught.

“So, here’s what happens next,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You tell me who paid you. Or I begin formal charges for the attempted murder of a superior officer. Your choice.”

“It wasn’t like that, sir!” he burst out, sweat beading on his forehead. “They… they said it was a security issue! That Thorne… that she had compromised the aircraft. I was supposed to fix her mistakes!”

“Who said?”

Broderick glanced toward the locked door, as if expecting assassins to burst through. “A man… from DC. Never gave his name. Said he was with military intelligence. Said it was… patriotic. To help them monitor her.”

“This man gave you instructions to adjust the cannon system.”

“He said it would expose her incompetence!” Broderick’s voice cracked. “He said no one would get hurt! That the system would just fail on the ground! They paid me… they paid me $5,000.”

Five thousand dollars to murder a Colonel. The banality of it was sickening.

I maintained my control, though I wanted to slam him against the tool rack. “You will provide a full written statement. Names. Descriptions. Contact methods. Everything.”

“They’ll know it was me…” he whimpered.

“You should have considered that before accepting a bribe to sabotage a United States Air Force A-10.” I moved to the door. “Report to my office at 1600 hours. If you are not there, Security Forces will find you.”

I left him shaking among the tools and made my way to the secure communications center. The morning’s events were clarifying. Rowan had operatives on my base, working outside official channels. They had tried to create a catastrophic failure. They would have blamed it on Thorne—the quiet, strange mechanic with the ghost tattoo. And they used Broderick’s greed and resentment as their instrument.

The secure terminal required multiple authentications. I entered the parameters carefully, avoiding the direct approach that had triggered security flags the night before. No searching “Lana Thorne” or “Operation Swift Talon.”

Instead, I cross-referenced personnel assignments and mission dates. I built a mosaic, a circumstantial case file, without explicitly accessing the classified operations themselves.

Sergeant Lana Thorne. Transferred from Nellis Air Force Base, three years prior.

I dove deeper.

There was no record of her at Nellis before that transfer.

The documentation existed, but the supporting details were vapor-thin. A personnel file created from whole cloth. Perfect in its structure, but lacking any organic development. A ghost.

And the timing… it aligned precisely with the Sevastopol incident.

The official record was blunt. All members of Operation Swift Talon: Killed In Action. No bodies recovered. The explosion destroyed the target facility. The only confirmation of their presence was the recovery of the team’s specialized insignia from the wreckage.

I leaned back, the pieces clicking into place with a horrifying sound.

If Thorne was actually Raven 6—the covert team leader, officially declared dead—her presence on my base was no coincidence.

She was hiding. Hiding in plain sight, using her absurdly high-level technical skills as cover while she pursued… what?

And why would General Rowan, the man who had authorized the original mission five years ago, be concerned enough to personally investigate a maintenance sergeant?

The secure phone on my desk rang, splitting the silence. The base comms officer.

“Colonel. General Rowan is requesting you join him in Briefing Room Alpha. Immediately. He says it’s urgent.”

“On my way.”

I locked the terminal. The game was accelerating. Rowan was forcing my hand.

The afternoon heat was a physical blow, shimmering above the tarmac. Briefing Room Alpha was a SCIF, the most secure facility on base. The guard verified my identity before letting me in.

Inside, it was cold. Rowan stood before a large display screen showing satellite imagery.

“Colonel. Thank you for joining us.” He gestured to the screen. “I’ve been authorized to brief you on… certain aspects… of a situation developing within your command.”

Certain aspects. Not a full briefing. Carefully curated information.

“I appreciate the courtesy, General.”

“Five years ago,” he began, his voice the smooth monotone of an official report, “a specialized team was deployed to Sevastopol. Their mission: target a facility housing terrorist elements with stolen American weapons.”

He manipulated the display. Thermal imaging of a compound. “The operation failed. Catastrophically. The entire team was lost.”

The screen displayed footage of an explosion. The facility erupting in fire and debris. Thermal signatures—human forms—vanished as the building collapsed.

“This,” Rowan said, his voice carrying absolute conviction, “is where Raven 6 and her team died.”

I studied the footage, my intelligence training kicking in. Professional detachment. “You have confirmation of casualties?”

“We never recovered bodies. Just this.”

Rowan produced a sealed evidence bag. Inside, a piece of scorched fabric. On it, a black and silver insignia.

The same one I’d seen on Thorne’s forearm. The one that had started this all.

“The explosion was thorough,” Rowan said. “Nothing else remained.”

“A convenient conclusion to a failed operation,” I said, the words out before I could stop them.

Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you implying, Colonel?”

“Simply that without bodies, certainty is difficult.” I nodded toward the screen. “May I?”

He hesitated, then stepped aside.

I examined the footage, frame by frame. The final frames before the camera feed terminated.

And there. In the bottom corner. Barely visible. A drainage channel, leading away from the facility.

And moving through it… a thermal signature.

It was small, indistinct, but it was moving. It was separate from the main building. It was… someone.

“What was the actual mission objective, General?” I asked, keeping my tone professionally curious.

“Precisely what I stated. Neutralizing a terrorist cell.” Rowan’s posture stiffened. “This briefing concerns current security matters, Colonel, not a historical operations review.”

“Of course.” I stepped back from the display. “You believe one of my personnel is connected to this incident.”

“We have credible intelligence suggesting a security compromise on this base.” Rowan shut down the display, plunging the room into shadow. “Individuals may not be who they claim to be.”

“Sergeant Thorne,” I stated.

“I didn’t specify any names.” Rowan’s cold smile returned. “But your mind went there immediately. Interesting.”

“She’s the only maintenance specialist who has drawn unusual attention from visiting Pentagon officials. It’s a logical conclusion.”

“Logical indeed,” he mused. “We’ll continue monitoring the situation. In the meantime, I suggest you review security protocols for personnel assigned to sensitive equipment.”

“Already underway, sir.”

The meeting was over. A threat delivered under the guise of a briefing.

I returned to my office, my mind a whirlwind. The satellite footage had revealed more than Rowan intended. Someone had escaped Sevastopol. Someone Rowan either didn’t know about… or didn’t want acknowledged.

The afternoon crawled by. I reviewed deployment preparations, signed forms, conducted meetings. All with an outward calm I did not feel. Inside, I was a battlefield of calculations and contingencies.

At precisely 1600 hours, my aide reported that Airman Broderick had failed to appear.

He was gone.

Security teams found his barracks room empty. Personal items still in place, but the airman himself… vanished. His access card had last been used at the main gate at 1422 hours, less than two hours after I’d confronted him.

The pieces shifted again. Broderick running meant external pressure. Either Rowan’s people had “disappeared” him, or he’d fled. Either way, he was silenced.

As daylight faded, I made one last attempt to locate Sergeant Thorne. Her afternoon shift had been mysteriously canceled. Her workstation was vacant. The shift supervisor reported receiving orders from “command staff” to reassign her duties. No specifics.

She was gone, too.

With a growing certainty that events were accelerating, I made a decision. I would visit Thorne’s off-base housing. Personally. Outside official channels.

If she was Raven 6, she was already aware of the day’s developments. The question was, would she trust me?

The modest apartment complex was quiet. I approached in an unmarked vehicle, my old intel training guiding my movements. Avoid direct approaches. Watch for surveillance.

The black sedan that had been watching her building for a week… was gone. Its absence was more concerning than its presence.

Thorne’s apartment was dark. I approached cautiously. Undisturbed dust on the doorstep. Mail in the box. No one had entered or exited recently.

I knocked. Waited. Nothing.

The door was locked. I used techniques I hadn’t needed in a decade. The lock clicked open.

Inside, the apartment was military-neat. And completely empty.

The furniture was in place. Basic kitchenware in the cabinets. But all personal items were gone. The bedroom closet held standard-issue uniforms, but nothing else. Dresser drawers empty. Bathroom stripped.

Sergeant Lana Thorne had vanished. A professional exit. She left just enough behind to suggest a temporary absence, not a panicked flight.

I did a thorough search. I was looking for anything. A message. A clue.

The apartment was sterile. Nothing.

Until I checked the bedroom ventilation grate.

The surveillance camera I’d half-expected to find was there. Expertly installed. But it was disabled.

And beside it, wedged into the ductwork where no casual inspection would ever find it, was a small, tactical notebook.

I retrieved it and left, restoring everything to how I’d found it.

Back in my vehicle, under the dim dome light, I examined it. The contents were encoded. A system I recognized from my intel days, but the specific key was unfamiliar.

What I could decipher were coordinates. Dates. Names.

And on the final page, a photograph. Worn at the edges from handling. Six individuals in unmarked tactical gear. Faces clear.

I recognized Thorne immediately. Raven 6.

And standing beside her, his arm draped casually over her shoulder, was a man whose features were unmistakable.

A younger, smiling General Rowan.

The implications hit me like a physical blow. Not just a covert op gone wrong. Not just corruption.

This was personal. This was a betrayal on a level I couldn’t fathom. Something Rowan wanted buried so badly he’d kill his own team. Something worth killing me to keep secret.

I secured the notebook inside my jacket and drove back to base, my mind racing. Whatever happened five years ago hadn’t stayed in Sevastopol. It was here.

And I was no longer an investigator. I was a target.

Back in my office, I accessed the highest security clearance database available to my rank. No more subtlety. I was done building mosaics.

Operation Swift Talon. Black Sea operations. Weapons interdiction.

The picture that emerged was sickening. It contradicted everything Rowan had said.

Intelligence reports from that period showed no terrorist cell at the target location.

Instead, multiple references. Unauthorized weapons shipments. Missing inventory from US military depots.

My blood ran cold.

It wasn’t a mission to neutralize terrorists. It was an operation to eliminate evidence. Evidence of American weapons, deliberately provided to unauthorized forces.

It was a cover-up. Disguised as a mission.

And an entire team—Raven 6’s team—had been sacrificed to maintain the secret.

The terminal suddenly locked.

A red banner flashed across the screen. SECURITY PROTOCOL ACTIVATED. UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS.

My search had finally triggered the high-level alerts.

Seconds later, alarms blared across the entire base.

SECURITY BREACH. SECURITY BREACH AT THE WEAPONS DEPOT. ALL PERSONNEL TO BATTLE STATIONS.

I moved. Instantly. Years of training overriding the shock.

The depot breach was either a genuine emergency, or a tactical distraction. A trap.

Either way, my presence as base commander was not optional.

The night air was filled with the sound of mobilizing security teams. Armed personnel established perimeters. General Rowan’s personal security detail had already taken command, superseding standard base protocols.

I approached the primary checkpoint. The leader, a Major I didn’t recognize, nodded curtly. “Colonel. The General is already inside assessing the situation. He requested you join him immediately.”

The weapons depot was vast, illuminated only by harsh emergency lighting. Security teams held positions at every access point. Weapons ready.

It was too many personnel. Far too many for a standard alert. This was planned. Resources, pre-positioned.

I entered the main storage area, my senses screaming.

Rowan stood in the center of the facility, surrounded by his personal security detail. There was no evidence of a breach. No forced entry. No missing inventory.

The alarm had been manufactured.

“Colonel Hargrove.” Rowan’s voice was calm. “Thank you for your prompt response.”

He dismissed his security team with a gesture. They fanned out, forming a loose perimeter, leaving us alone among the racks of missiles and ammunition.

“We have a situation that requires immediate resolution,” Rowan said.

“The security breach appears contained,” I replied, playing my part.

“I’m not talking about the depot.”

His demeanor shifted. The military courtesy evaporated, replaced by something cold and hard.

“I’m talking about your unauthorized access of classified materials. Your unscheduled visit to Sergeant Thorne’s residence. Your persistent, dangerous interest in matters far beyond your clearance level.”

I maintained my composure. “My responsibilities include base security and personnel welfare. When anomalies appear, I investigate.”

“Some investigations lead places you don’t want to go.” Rowan stepped closer. “You’ve built an impressive career, Colonel. Pentagon fast-track. Potential for general’s stars. All of it… jeopardized by misplaced curiosity.”

“Is that a threat, General?”

“A reality assessment.” His smile never reached his eyes. “Some assets become liabilities when they operate outside their parameters. Like you have, Colonel.”

The subtext was clear. He was equating me with Raven 6’s team. A problem to be eliminated.

“Assets and liabilities,” I said, holding his gaze. “Convenient categories for avoiding responsibility.”

“Responsibility is relative in our line of work.” His hand moved, subtly, toward the sidearm on his hip. “Sometimes, hard choices must be made to protect larger interests.”

“Like the choices you made in Sevastopol?”

Rowan’s expression hardened into granite. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know you sent a team to eliminate evidence of your illegal weapons transfers. American technology, provided to forces prohibited by international agreements. All for profit.”

“Careful, Colonel.” His voice was a low growl. “Accusations like that end careers. Or worse.”

“You sent them in to die!” My control finally slipped, anger breaking through. “Your own people! The woman in that photograph with you!”

“Sometimes,” Rowan repeated, his voice colder than the grave, “assets become liabilities. Like you have, Colonel.”

His hand was on his weapon.

The standoff stretched, thick and violent, in the harsh emergency lighting.

And then, with sudden, absolute precision, the lights extinguished.

Total darkness.

Confused shouts from the security teams outside. A muffled thud as someone hit the concrete floor.

A hand gripped my arm. Not a strike, a grip. Pulling me sideways with startling strength.

“Stairs down! Six steps! Move!”

The voice was female. Authoritative. Barely a whisper, but it cut through the chaos.

I didn’t resist. My training took over. I moved with the momentum, allowing myself to be guided into absolute blackness.

We descended into maintenance tunnels beneath the depot. Emergency lighting provided minimal, red-tinged visibility.

My guide moved with absolute confidence. This was not Thorne. This was someone else. A figure in full tactical gear, face obscured by a specialized mask.

She led me into a sub-basement I never knew existed. An abandoned maintenance area, but the dust patterns were disturbed. She secured the access point behind us, plunging us into silence, the alarms above muffled.

Then, the figure removed her tactical mask.

Sergeant Lana Thorne stood before me.

But it wasn’t her. The quiet, invisible mechanic was gone. This woman’s posture, her expression, the way she occupied space—it was all fundamentally different. This was someone accustomed to command. To combat. To life and death.

“We don’t have much time,” she said. Her voice was different, too. Natural authority. “Rowan’s people will establish a secondary perimeter as soon as they realize you’re missing.”

“You’re… Raven 6,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

A flicker of something—pain, memory—crossed her features. “I was. Five years ago.” She activated a tactical light, illuminating a makeshift operations area. Comms gear, weapons, a laptop.

“My name is Major Adaran Caldwell,” she said, her voice tight. “And five years ago, you signed the orders sending my team to Sevastopol.”

I processed the confirmation. “I was Pentagon liaison for Special Op deployments. I signed hundreds of mission orders.”

“This one was different.” She moved to a secure case, entering a long code. “This one was designed to eliminate six people who discovered something they weren’t supposed to know.”

The case opened. It was filled with data drives, documents, photographs. Shipping manifests with Rowan’s authorization codes. Records of offshore accounts.

“We were sent to destroy a terrorist weapons cache,” Caldwell said, her voice clinically detached, but her eyes were burning. “What we found were our own weapons. American weapons. Being provided to separatist forces in direct violation of international agreements. Millions in hardware, diverted by Rowan and his cronies for personal profit.”

She closed the case. “When we reported our findings through secure channels, our extraction was… suddenly cancelled. And then the building we were in mysteriously exploded.”

“But you survived.”

“I was checking the drainage system for additional weapon storage when the charges detonated.” Her expression hardened into something terrifying. “My entire team was still inside. I watched them die. On thermal imaging. From 100 meters away.”

It clicked. The thermal signature I saw in the footage. It was her. The sole survivor.

“You’ve been gathering evidence ever since.”

“Three years,” she confirmed. “Deep cover. Building the case. Accessing systems no one thought to protect, because Major Caldwell was officially dead.” She checked her tactical watch. “Now Rowan has brought the fight here. And time has run out.”

The alarms above us were still blaring. We could hear boots on the concrete.

“Why reveal yourself to me?” I asked. “You could have finished this without me.”

“Because you were asking the right questions,” she said, meeting my gaze. “And because you were skilled enough—or lucky enough—to notice the cannon sabotage before it killed you.”

Her eyes were intense. “I didn’t come here for revenge, Colonel. I came for justice.”

“Justice looks different depending on where you stand.”

“Then stand with me.” She opened the evidence case again. “This data package contains everything. Financial records, transfer authorizations, communication logs. Enough to bring down everyone involved, including Rowan.”

She offered me a secure data drive.

“You can take this to the Inspector General,” she said. “Or you can walk away. But you have to decide. Right now.”

I looked at the drive. My career. My future. My life. Weighed against justice for a dead team. Against the corruption Rowan represented.

The sound of boots on the stairs above us made the decision for me.

“What do you need me to do?”

Before she could answer, the door to the sub-basement splintered inward.

Security personnel flooded the space. Weapons raised.

General Rowan entered behind them, his expression a mask of cold triumph.

“Secure the Colonel and the intruder,” he ordered. “Separate detainment. Maximum security. No-contact protocols.”

As they moved in, Caldwell’s hand closed around the evidence case. Her eyes met mine, communicating something fierce and unspoken. A contingency. A plan within the plan.

The team surrounded us. I offered no resistance.

Beside me, Caldwell transformed again. Her shoulders slumped. Her eyes went blank. She became the invisible mechanic.

“General Rowan,” she said, her voice deliberately small and frightened. “You… you haven’t changed at all.”

Rowan approached her, studying her like a bug. “Sergeant Thorne. Or should I say, Major Caldwell. Raven 6. Back from the dead.”

“You remembered,” she whispered. “I’m touched.”

“Hard to forget someone you personally sent to die.” He signaled his team. “Take them.”

As they led us away, I caught a final glimpse of the evidence case, now securely in Rowan’s hand.

Whatever justice Caldwell had pursued for five years… it was over. Contained in a case held by the very man who had orchestrated her team’s destruction.

But her demeanor… it wasn’t defeat. It was calculation.

As if this, too, had been part of the plan.

The security team escorted us up, out of the depot, into the chaotic night. The entire base was mobilized. Floodlights illuminated the tarmac.

And that’s when I saw it.

Aircraft AC-358. My A-10. The one she’d serviced. The one Broderick had sabotaged.

It was fueled, armed, and positioned for immediate departure.

A single pilot in full flight gear was performing final pre-flight checks with calm, impossible efficiency.

The realization hit me with the force of a bomb.

This wasn’t an escape attempt. It was a distraction. A deliberate drawing of all forces, all eyes, to the depot.

This wasn’t a failed mission. It was a mission proceeding exactly as planned.

As we reached the security vehicles, the A-10’s engines roared to life.

Rowan’s head snapped up. Recognition, then pure, undiluted alarm, flashed across his features. He realized the implications. The evidence case in his hand was momentarily forgotten.

In that single instant of distraction, Caldwell moved.

It wasn’t a fight. It was physics. A precise, brutal strike against her escorts. A C-clamp to the throat of one, a joint-lock on the other. It created a one-second window of chaos.

The data drive. The one she had offered me. The one I thought I still had.

It was gone.

It wasn’t in my possession. It was in hers.

In that one second, she had palmed it from me and passed it.

To who?

Security personnel swarmed, subduing her. Order was restored in seconds.

Caldwell, subdued once more, met my eyes across the tarmac.

A slight, infinitesimal nod.

Confirmation.

The A-10 began taxiing toward the runway.

“STOP THAT AIRCRAFT!” Rowan bellowed, his composure shattered. “ALL UNITS, STOP THAT AIRCRAFT!”

But base operations were suddenly reporting total communications failure. All systems, inoperative. No way to contact the tower. No way to prevent the takeoff.

As I was shoved into the back of a transport vehicle, I watched the A-10 lift into the darkness. It banked sharply eastward, toward Washington.

It wasn’t carrying weapons. It was carrying truth.

Beside me, her hands cuffed, Major Caldwell whispered, so softly only I could hear.

“Now… we see who they really are.”