Chapter 4
Glass rained across my shoulders.
I hit the floor of the jeep as bullets tore through metal above me.
Commander Rourke fired back through the shattered windshield.
Private Vance moved like she had been waiting for the attack.
No panic.
No wasted motion.
She rolled out, took cover behind the front tire, and fired three controlled shots.
The SUV swerved.
Its headlights swung sideways.
Then it crashed into a concrete barrier with a sound that shook my teeth.
“Move!” Rourke shouted.
He dragged me out by my collar.
My knees hit asphalt.
The woman in the suit was already on the radio.
“Contact at south comms. Armed assault. Lockdown confirmed.”
Vance advanced toward the SUV.
Two men inside were groaning.
One reached for a weapon.
She kicked the door shut against his arm.
He screamed.
“Clear,” she said.
Rourke pushed me behind the building wall.
“You hit?”
I touched my face.
My fingers came away with blood from a glass cut.
“No, sir.”
The woman in the suit looked at one of the men from the SUV.
“Private contractor badges.”
Rourke’s face twisted.
“Whitmore’s people.”
Then Vance pulled something from the driver’s jacket.
A laminated access card.
She stared at it.
“General Harland’s clearance.”
Rourke went still.
“He gave them access?”
“Or they took it after he opened the door.”
The radio crackled.
“Commander, we have breach at detention wing. Two MPs down. Cadet Whitmore missing confirmed. Unknown armed personnel moving toward records.”
Vance turned.
“Records is the target.”
The woman in the suit nodded.
“They want the procurement archive.”
Rourke looked at me.
“You stay here.”
“No,” Vance said.
Rourke snapped, “Major—”
“He’s safer moving with us than sitting alone while they control access cards.”
I wished Rourke would argue harder.
He did not.
We ran.
I had trained for runs.
Miles with full gear.
Hill sprints.
Mud crawls.
Nothing prepared me for running through my own base while men with contractor badges hunted evidence.
We reached the records building as smoke poured from a side door.
Two MPs lay on the ground.
One moved.
One did not.
Vance dropped beside the moving one.
“Who went in?”
The MP coughed.
“Whitmore. Two armed. One officer.”
Rourke’s face darkened.
“Officer?”
The MP swallowed.
“Harland.”
For a moment, the whole world narrowed to that name.
General Harland.
The man Whitmore bragged about.
The man his father was meeting.
The man who was supposed to protect the Army from men like Vincent Whitmore.
Vance stood.
Something changed in her.
The cold calm remained, but underneath it, I saw grief turn into purpose.
“Commander,” she said, “evacuate the wounded.”
“I’m going in.”
“No,” she said. “You secure the perimeter. If Harland walks out, you arrest him. If Vincent arrives, you close the net.”
Rourke stared at her.
“You are not in command here.”
Vance looked at him.
“Broken Spear authority remains active under sealed order.”
Rourke’s face drained again.
Then he stepped back.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looked at me.
“Stay close. Do exactly what I say.”
My voice shook.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Inside, the records building was thick with smoke.
Sprinklers rained from the ceiling.
Alarms shrieked.
Rows of file cabinets stood open.
Paper covered the floor.
We moved low.
Vance’s hand signaled stop.
Voices came from the archive room.
Whitmore.
Panicked.
“I didn’t sign up for this.”
Another voice answered.
Older.
Cold.
“You signed up the day you used my name like a shield.”
General Harland.
Then a third voice came through a phone speaker.
Vincent Whitmore.
“You have ten minutes. Burn the Karsik file and get my son out.”
Vance’s jaw tightened.
She stepped into the doorway.
“Too late, Vincent.”
The room froze.
Whitmore stood near a burning trash can, holding a stack of files.
General Harland held a pistol.
His face went gray when he saw her.
“Mara,” he whispered.
She aimed at him.
“General.”
Whitmore backed up.
“What is happening?”
Vance did not take her eyes off Harland.
“Your father killed my team. He paid men like him to bury it. And you were stupid enough to brag about it.”
Whitmore looked at Harland.
“You said she was dead.”
Harland’s hand shook.
“She was supposed to be.”
That sentence changed everything.
Vance fired.
Not at Harland’s chest.
At his gun hand.
The pistol flew.
Harland screamed.
Whitmore bolted.
more bolted.
Without thinking, I tackled him.
We hit the wet floor hard.
He fought like a spoiled man, wild and desperate.
“You nobody!” he shouted.
His elbow caught my jaw.
Pain flashed white.
I held on.
Vance was there in seconds.
She pinned him with one knee.
“Cadet Julian Whitmore,” she said, “you are under military arrest.”
Whitmore sobbed.
“My father will destroy you.”
May you like
Vance leaned close.
“No,” she said. “Your father is why I came back from the dead.”
