Look at yourself, Commander Callaway, Richard called out, his deep baritone carrying easily across the thirty yards of wet iron deck. Standing on a condemned county bridge in the dark, holding a dead soldier’s rifle, trying to play savior. Who do you think is going to write the history of this night? You think the media will care about a disgraced veteran who went postal in an Ohio gym? By sunrise, every local station from Pittsburgh to Cleveland will be broadcasting your mugshot. A troubled rogue agent suffering from combat psychosis. It’s a clean story. People understand it.
Dana took one slow step forward, the rifle never drifting from center mass. You always were better at buying lies than facing the truth, Richard.
And what truth is that, girl? Richard sneered, stepping closer. That you couldn’t keep my oldest boy breathing? That you brought his ghost back to my town because you were too weak to let him go?
Before Dana could reply, the passenger door of the pickup truck slammed open.
Marcus tumbled out into the rain, his boots skidding on the slick metal decking before he found his footing. He didn’t stay low. He ignored the tactical safety protocols Dana had given him. He stood tall, the cold rain instantly pasting his dark hair across his forehead, his bloodshot eyes locking directly onto the man who had raised him.
Dad! Marcus screamed, his voice cracking with an agonizing mixture of heartbreak and fury. Tell me she’s lying! Look at me and tell me you didn’t do it!
Richard’s gaze shifted to Marcus. For a fraction of a second, an expression resembling mild disappointment flickered across the old man’s stone-carved features, before it was swallowed whole by icy contempt.
Get back in that vehicle, Marcus, Richard said, his tone as cold and detached as if he were reprimanding a five-year-old for spilling milk. You are making an utter fool of yourself in front of my employees.
Employees? Marcus yelled, taking three frantic steps toward the barricade before Dana’s free left hand snapped out, catching him by the collar of his vest and yanking him firmly behind the cover of the truck’s engine block. They’re killers, Dad! Ramos told me everything! He told me you gave Julian’s convoy coordinates to an arms broker in Dubai! He told me you sold Julian out for four million dollars because he found the manifests! Tell me he was lying!
Richard sighed, a sound of profound boredom that chilled Marcus deeper than the icy autumn rain ever could.
Julian was an insolent child, Marcus, Richard said, not raising his voice, yet every syllable carried the weight of an iron sledge. He was born with a defective heart. He thought a country that taxes forty percent of your wealth was worth dying for. He thought the laws written by old, useless men in Washington applied to a man who built an empire with his bare hands. He wanted to destroy everything I built for you. He forced my hand, Marcus. A tree cannot grow if a rotten branch threatens the trunk.
Marcus dropped to his knees behind the truck door, his stomach convulsing as if he had just swallowed pure poison. The confession, spoken so casually in the middle of a torrential downpour, shattered the final illusion of his youth. The monster wasn’t outside his home. It had sat at the head of the dinner table his entire life.
You killed your own son, Marcus wept, his fists pounding the iron floor. You murdered my brother…
I protected this family, Richard corrected sharply, his gray eyes narrowing as he looked past Marcus toward Dana. And now, I’m going to clean up the mess he left behind. Miller. Clear the bridge.
Sheriff Miller hesitated, his eyes darting toward the SCAR 17 in Dana’s hands. Richard… there’s an active combat rifle pointed at my chest. If she fires—
She won’t fire on a badge, Richard cut him off, stepping back toward the armored Suburbans. She’s military. They are conditioned to follow rules of engagement until the dirt hits the coffin lid. Kill her. Put the boy in the second car. If Marcus resists, break both his legs. We’ll handle his rehabilitation at the estate.
The six private contractors in black tactical gear didn’t wait for another word. They moved with mechanical efficiency, spreading out across the bridge span in a textbook wedge formation, their short-barreled carbines raising to shoulder height. Suppressors gleamed under the xenon lights.
Dana didn’t wait for them to acquire their sight picture.
Rules of engagement, Dana muttered under her breath, expired the moment you brought Julian’s name into this mud.
Her right index finger depressed the SCAR’s trigger.
