Part 1

The rotors of the transport helicopter kicked up a storm of Nevada sand as I stepped onto the tarmac at Maverick Joint Training Facility. The dust stung my eyes and coated my tongue, a gritty taste of displacement. I prefer to be invisible. As a combat medic—and as something else, something buried—invisibility is armor. At 5’6″, with my hair pulled into a regulation bun, I am easy to overlook. It’s exactly how I’ve survived.

Around me, the elite of the U.S. military postured and shouted. Marine Force Recon, Army Rangers, SEALs. They were lions sizing each other up, and I was just a mouse slipping through the cracks, heading for the medical tent.

Inside, I began my inventory. Gauze, antiseptic, trauma kits. The simple, tactile task of counting and arranging soothed the part of my brain that never sleeps. My movements were precise, economical. A voice cut through my focus.

“Staff Sergeant Thorne.”

I turned to find Colonel Westerard. His face was a map of desert sun and hard decisions. “Sir.”

“Change to your assignment,” he said, not looking up from his tablet. “You’re reassigned to supervise the firing range qualification drills.”

I kept my face neutral, but my pulse quickened. “Range supervision, sir? That’s not typically a medical assignment.”

“Orders from above.” He handed me a digital clipboard. “Report to range delta at 0500 tomorrow.”

As he left, I saw a group of Rangers outside the tent smirking. They’d overheard. Range supervision was busy work, punishment duty for cadets or screw-ups.

Staff Sergeant Quinnland, a man built like a truck but with kind eyes, approached me. “That’s punishment duty, Thorne. You step on someone’s toes?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” I murmured, still counting bandages.

“Well, watch yourself,” he said quietly. “The range is a political minefield.” He noticed my almost imperceptible limp as I reached for a high shelf. “Afghanistan?” he asked, his voice soft.

I paused, my back to him. “Something like that.” The conversation was over.

The next day, the 1100 briefing was packed. I found a spot against the back wall, out of place in my medical insignia. The room fell silent as Brigadier General Harlon Blackwood strode in.

I knew the name. Everyone did. They called him “The Undertaker.” Not for the enemies he’d killed, but for the careers he’d buried. He was 58, rigid, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to dissect everything they landed on. He was a man who broke soldiers in training so they wouldn’t break in the field. Or so he claimed.

His gaze swept the room and locked onto me. I felt it like a physical touch, cold and sharp. He paused mid-sentence.

“Staff Sergeant Thorne. You’re out of place. Medical personnel report to field hospital command.”

Every head in the room turned. “I’ve been reassigned to range supervision, sir,” I said, my voice even.

A flicker of something crossed his face. Confusion? No… recognition. It was there and gone in a nanosecond, replaced by his professional mask. “Interesting choice,” he said, an edge to his voice. “We’ll see how you perform.”

I felt his eyes on me for the rest of the briefing. It was the last thing I wanted. Attention is dangerous. Attention gets people killed.

By 1500 hours, I was on Range Delta. The sun was a merciless white disk overhead. I checked every station, my hands moving over the weapons with a familiarity that had nothing to do with my medic’s patch.

“You handle weapons like you’ve done more than just patch wounds,” Captain Sorrel, the range safety officer, remarked.

“Every medic should understand what causes the injuries they treat,” I replied.

Before he could press, the PA crackled. “All units, standby for demonstration. General approaching range.”

The mood shifted. The air went taut. My soldier’s instinct, the one buried deep, screamed that something was about to go wrong.

Blackwood arrived with a group of foreign military observers. He was center stage, soaking in their attention. “Gentlemen,” he boomed. “Today we demonstrate American precision under pressure.”

His gaze swept the range and, just as in the briefing, it landed on me. A cold smile spread across his face.

“Staff Sergeant Thorne. Perfect timing. You’ll assist with our demonstration.”

The range fell silent. One of his aides handed me a ballistic vest.

“Put this on,” Blackwood instructed. “Then walk to the 30-yard marker and stand facing us.”

A nervous murmur rippled through the soldiers. Captain Sorrel stepped forward. “Sir, range protocol dictates—”

“Are you questioning my orders, Captain?” Blackwood snapped.

“No, sir.” Sorrel shot me an apologetic look.

But I was already walking. The 30-yard walk felt like a mile. The desert wind whipped my hair, and for a split second, I wasn’t in Nevada. I was back there. Another desert, other bullets, the metallic taste of blood and fear in my mouth. The weight of a man on my back.

I pushed it down. I reached the marker and turned. I focused on Blackwood. He was drawing his sidearm, a standard-issue M9 Beretta.

The range held its breath.

He raised the pistol, aiming directly at me.

And a strange, familiar calm washed over me. The background noise of the desert faded. My breathing slowed. I wasnV’t a medic. I wasn’t a prop. I was not prey.

My vision narrowed, focusing not on the barrel, but on his trigger finger. The tension in his arm. I saw his stance, the slight cant of his wrist. I knew where the bullets would go before he even fired. My mind, a cold calculator, observed.

The sound of gunfire cracked across the desert. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Dust exploded at my feet, stinging my shins.

When it cleared, I hadn’t moved an inch. I hadn’t even flinched. I just stood there, my expression unchanged, as if a general firing live rounds at my feet was a mild Tuesday inconvenience.

Blackwood holstered his weapon with a flourish, turning to the impressed delegates. “And that, gentlemen, is discipline under fire. Even our medical personnel…”

He was basking in their applause, but I wasn’t listening. I was looking at the five holes in the sand. I saw the pattern. It wasn’t precision. It was a sloppy, four-degree right bias. Mediocre marksmanship disguised as control.

I began to walk back. Each step was deliberate. The range was silent again, the soldiers watching me. Blackwood had dismissed me, turning back to his guests.

I stopped directly in front of him, interrupting his speech. He turned, annoyed. “Is there a problem, Sergeant?”

I didn’t speak. I just held out my hand, palm up.

“Your sidearm, sir,” I said, my voice calm and clear. “May I?”

His face darkened. But with the foreign observers watching, he couldn’t refuse. With barely concealed irritation, he handed me the pistol, grip first.

I took it. The weight was familiar, an old friend. With fluid, practiced motions, I ejected the magazine, checked the chamber, and cleared the weapon. My hands moved with a confidence that silenced every whisper.

“Your grouping indicates a four-degree right bias, sir,” I stated, my voice carrying in the stillness. “Likely due to improper trigger control.”

A collective gasp sucked the air from the range.

Blackwood’s face flushed a deep, angry red.

I wasn’t finished. “Your second and fifth rounds would have missed center mass on a moving target. In a combat situation, that’s two opportunities for an enemy to return fire.”

The silence that followed was absolute. It was the sound of a career hitting a brick wall. The foreign delegates were staring, their assessment of Blackwood changing by the second.

“That’s… quite the analysis,” he choked out, tight with rage. “Who taught you to shoot, Sergeant?”

I held his gaze. “The same person who taught me to save lives when shooting fails.”

As I moved to hand the cleared weapon back to him, my pocket snagged on the holster I was still wearing. Something fell, hitting the packed earth with a soft thud and a metallic clink.

A worn photograph and a metal coin.

I knelt quickly to retrieve them, but not before Lieutenant Commander Zephyr, the SEAL leader, saw what had fallen.

His eyes went wide. His face drained of color. “That’s not possible,” he whispered, a sound of pure shock and reverence.

I palmed the items, my fingers closing tightly around the coin. Its worn edges bit into my skin. I stood up and handed the pistol back to Blackwood.

But Zephyr stepped forward, his eyes locked on my closed fist. He ignored the General, his voice intense. “Sir,” he said to Blackwood. “May I ask where Staff Sergeant Thorne served before this assignment?”

The question hung in the air, electric and dangerous.

“That information is classified,” I interrupted smoothly.

“Not to someone who recognizes what just fell from your pocket,” Zephyr shot back, his voice low.

Every eye on the range turned to my hand. The General, the delegates, the Rangers, the SEALs. They were all staring at the secret I had guarded for five years. The secret that five of my friends had died for.

The secret that proved the Pentagon was lying.

Part 2

My fingers clamped down on the two small pieces of metal in my pocket—the coin Zephyr had seen, and the worn photograph. The coin’s edges, a winged serpent wrapped around a caduceus, bit into my palm. It was an anchor, the only thing keeping me from floating away on the tide of memory that threatened to drag me under. The desert sun, the stunned faces, the smell of cordite—it all blurred with another time, another desert, another failed demonstration of power.

General Blackwood, his face a thundercloud of purple rage, saw his authority evaporating in the dry Nevada heat. His perfect demonstration for the foreign delegates had been hijacked. He was a man who buried careers, and I had just handed him a shovel with his own name on it.

“This demonstration is concluded!” he boomed, his voice cracking with fury. “All units, return to your scheduled training! Disperse! Now!”

The soldiers, reluctant to miss the end of the show, began to shuffle away, their hushed conversations and backward glances following me. I was a lightning rod now. The invisible medic was gone.

Blackwood stalked toward me, his entourage of aides scrambling to keep up. He stopped inches from my face. I could smell the stale coffee on his breath. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, Staff Sergeant,” he hissed, his voice a low, venomous promise. “But undermining a superior officer in front of foreign officials is grounds for a court-martial. You’ll be lucky to be cleaning latrines in Antarctica by this time next week.”

Before I could respond, a new voice cut in, smooth and calm. “With respect, General.”

Lieutenant Commander Zephyr had moved to my side. He stood relaxed, but his presence was a physical shield. “Sir, I’d like to have a word with Staff Sergeant Thorne. My team is reviewing our medevac protocols, and her expertise would be invaluable.”

Blackwood’s eyes swiveled to Zephyr, his fury momentarily checked by the SEAL’s rank and the unspoken power of SOCOM. He was trapped. To deny a request from a SEAL commander after this public disaster would look petty and weak.

“Fine,” he spat. “You have thirty minutes. Then, Sergeant Thorne,” he turned back to me, his eyes promising retribution, “you and I will have a long talk about your future. Or lack thereof.”

He spun on his heel and marched off, his staff jogging to catch up. The range cleared out, leaving only me, Zephyr, and the silent, judging desert.

“Walk with me, Sergeant,” Zephyr said. His casual tone was gone, replaced by the quiet intensity I’d seen on the faces of operators about to enter a hot zone.

We walked away from the range, our boots crunching on the gravel, moving toward a secluded area between two concrete equipment sheds. The compound was designed for secrecy, full of blind corners and sound-dampening structures. I was acutely aware that we were likely being watched. My mind went into tactical mode, mapping sightlines, noting potential observers on the roofs of the barracks, calculating the distance to the command center.

Zephyr stopped in the narrow slice of shadow between the sheds. The air was still and hot.

“That was a Wraith unit coin,” he said. It was not a question.

I said nothing. My training, my survival, was built on denial. Acknowledge nothing. Confirm nothing. The ghosts of my team whispered the same. Stay dark, 7. Stay dark.

“I served with Talon Team in 2019,” he continued, his voice low, his eyes scanning the rooftops as well. “We were perimeter support for a covert extraction in Romani province. An operation that, officially, never happened.”

My blood ran cold. Romani province. The night everything ended.

“We were a klick out,” Zephyr said, his eyes distant, seeing it all again. “We heard the firefight. We heard the panic on the command net. We heard the CO call for a full, immediate extraction, leaving half his assets on the field.” He turned to face me, his gaze piercing. “We were ordered to hold position. To let them die.”

I remained silent, my face a mask, but my heart was a hammer against my ribs. I remembered that night. I remembered the screaming on the radio.

“The op went sideways. Total goat-f*ck. But then… the radio chatter went quiet. An hour later, we heard rumors. A unit that wasn’t on any roster had gone in. Six operators, no designation. They said a ghost came in after everything went to hell.”

“Rumors are just rumors, Commander,” I said, my voice flat, the practiced, official line.

“Except when they’re not,” he countered softly. “They said one of them was a woman. Small build. Medic training. Pulled three critically wounded men out from under direct fire after their CO froze up and abandoned them.” He took a small step closer. “They called her Wraith 7.”

I finally met his gaze. The desert wind whipped a strand of hair across my face. “What exactly are you asking me, Commander?”

“I’m not asking anything,” Zephyr said, his voice thick with an emotion I couldn’t place—awe, maybe. Or reverence. “I’m telling you that I know who you are. And I’m wondering why someone like you is here, on a firing range, being used as a prop in Blackwood’s ego show.”

“The Pentagon has no record of any unit called Wraith,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “And I’m just a combat medic assigned to range duty. Sir.”

He held my gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. He understood the wall I’d just rebuilt. “Of course. My mistake.” He looked around, then his expression hardened. “Either way, Staff Sergeant, watch your six. Blackwood isn’t just an arrogant ass. He’s a coward. And a coward with three stars is the most dangerous animal on this base. He won’t let today go.”

He extended his hand. “It’s an honor to serve with you, Staff Sergeant Thorne.”

I took his hand. The handshake was brief, firm. An unspoken acknowledgment. He knew. And he would keep the secret. But he had also just confirmed my worst fear: Blackwood wasn’t just a bully. He was tied to Romani.

“Your thirty minutes starts now, Commander,” I said, my voice lighter, falling back into the role. “What did you want to know about medevac protocols?”

---

The rest of the day was a new kind of hell. Invisibility, my armor for five years, was gone. I was a target.

I could feel the whispers as I walked across the compound. Every soldier I passed, every group of Marines doing PT, every cluster of Rangers cleaning weapons—their heads turned. Their conversations stopped, then resumed in a lower register.

That’s her. The medic who called out the General. In front of the attachés. I heard Zephyr pulled her aside. They say she’s ex-Tier One. No way. Look at her. She’s a medic.

The mess hall at 1800 was a trial by fire. I got my tray—dry chicken, overcooked beans—and the entire hall seemed to fall silent. I found the emptiest table in the darkest corner and sat, my back to the wall. It was a tactical necessity that now felt like a social one. I ate, focusing on the mechanical motions: fork to tray, tray to mouth, chew, swallow. I was a specimen in a zoo.

Then a tray clattered onto the table opposite me. “Mind if I join you, Sergeant?” Lieutenant Commander Zephyr. He sat down without waiting for an answer. Across the room, his entire SEAL team, who had been sitting together, watched us. It was a public, unmistakable statement of alignment.

Before I could even respond, another tray landed beside me. “Hope I’m not interrupting,” Major Adrien Reeves said, sliding into the seat. His tone was casual, but his eyes were not. He was the quiet officer from the briefing, the one with the thin, white scar just above his collar.

The tension at the small table was palpable. Zephyr, the knowing ally. Reeves, an unknown, but his presence here was also a statement. They were bracketing me, publicly shielding me from the fallout of the day’s events, whether I wanted it or not.

“Not at all, Major,” Zephyr replied, his expression carefully neutral. “Just getting to know Sergeant Thorne better. Discussing protocols.”

“Funny coincidence,” Reeves said, unwrapping his utensils. “That’s exactly what I was planning to do.”

They were two alpha predators, circling. And I was the curiosity they were both trying to figure out.

“Sergeant Thorne was just about to tell me about her previous assignments,” Zephyr prompted, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

“I doubt that,” Reeves countered, not looking at him, but at me. “The Sergeant strikes me as someone who lets her actions speak louder than words. And your actions today… they were very loud.”

I set down my fork. “Gentlemen, I appreciate the interest, but there’s not much to tell. Standard deployments, standard duties.”

“Standard duties don’t usually earn this kind of attention from General Blackwood,” Reeves observed, his eyes straying to the scar on his neck, a gesture I was beginning to realize was an unconscious tic. “He singled you out the moment you arrived. Then today… he seemed… personally offended.”

“The General’s not known for noticing support staff,” Zephyr added. “Unless they’ve done something exceptional. Or unless he has a history with them.”

My fingers tightened around my water glass. “Perhaps he just needed someone for his demonstration, and I was convenient.”

Neither of them looked convinced. “How long have you been a combat medic, Sergeant?” Reeves asked. “Eight years, sir.” “Deployments?” “Three to Afghanistan, two to Syria, various shorter assignments.” “Under which commands?” Zephyr pressed, his eyes sharp. I met his gaze evenly. “That information is classified beyond your clearance, Commander.”

A flash of triumph, quickly hidden, crossed Zephyr’s face. I had just confirmed his suspicion without saying a word. Reeves caught the exchange, and his brow furrowed, a flicker of deep, personal interest in his eyes. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but I stood, gathering my tray.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I have an early start tomorrow.”

I walked away, feeling both their gazes on my back. I had been shielded, but I had also been marked. I had allies, it seemed. But in my world, allies were just liabilities you hadn’t lost yet.

---

The desert turns cold fast. By 2100, the heat of the day was a memory, and a chill wind swept down from the mountains. I couldn’t sleep. The ghosts were too loud. Blackwood’s face, Zephyr’s knowing eyes, Reeves’s haunted stare. And the coin. The coin Zephyr had seen.

I left my barracks, needing space, needing to think. I found myself drawn back to the place of my humiliation and my defiance: Range Delta.

It was empty, bathed in the harsh, cold light of the perimeter floods. The target silhouettes stood like silent soldiers in the dark. The air smelled of dust and spent powder. I walked out to the 30-yard marker and stood where I had stood hours before. I looked back at the firing line.

What was he thinking? Firing at me? Was it a test? Or a message?

“Afghanistan?” The voice from the shadows made me spin, my hand instinctively dropping to where a sidearm should have been.

Major Reeves stepped out from the side of the observation post. He wasn’t in uniform. PT gear. “Sorry,” he said, holding up his hands. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I couldn’t sleep either.”

“Sir,” I said, relaxing, but only just.

He walked to stand beside me, not looking at me, but at the firing line. “You asked Quinnland today. He said you had a limp. Afghanistan?”

“Something like that, sir.”

He was silent for a long time. The wind whistled through the target stands. “Blackwood,” he said finally. “He has a reputation for breaking people. Pushing them until they snap, just to see if they’re worthy.”

“I’m aware of his methods, sir.”

“And yet you stood your ground. You didn’t flinch.” He turned to face me. “Not many would have had the composure to do that. To walk back and… critique his form.” A small, grim smile touched his lips. “That was… extraordinary.”

“I’ve faced worse than an officer with something to prove.”

“I believe you have.” His smile faded. His hand went to the scar on his neck. “November 2019 to July 2020. Where were you, Sergeant?”

My blood, which had just started to warm, turned to ice. It was the second time in one day I’d been asked about those dates. First Zephyr, now Reeves.

“Specialized training, Major. It’s in the file.”

“Don’t,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp. “Don’t lie to me. Please.” He looked down at his feet, then back up, his eyes shining with a raw, painful light. “I was there that night. In Romani province.”

The world tilted. The gravel under my boots felt soft, unstable.

“I was a Captain then,” he continued, his voice becoming hollow, distant. “We were on a high-value target extraction. Operation: FALLEN CROWN. It was a disaster from the jump. Bad intel. They were waiting for us.”

I said nothing. I couldn’t breathe. I remembered. A Captain. A neck wound.

“The IED took out half our rear element. Then the RPGs started. I took shrapnel.” His fingers traced the scar. “It severed my carotid. I was bleeding out. I remember… I remember our CO. On the radio. Panicked. Screaming.”

He was shaking. “He called for immediate extraction. ‘All units, pull back! We’re compromised! Bug out, bug out, bug out!’” Reeves’s voice was a choked whisper. “He left us. He left me and Mendees and Carver… he left us to die.”

My eyes stung, but I held it in. I remembered the names. Mendees, leg trauma. Carver, unconscious, TBI.

“I was fading,” Reeves whispered. “I was dying. I thought about my wife. My kid. I was getting cold. I heard Mendees stop screaming. And then… I saw you.”

“Sir…”

“I thought you were a hallucination. An angel. You were so small… you moved like… like a ghost. You came out of the smoke. You… you put your knee on my chest, packed the wound. You dragged me thirty meters under fire. Then you stopped, you looked at me.”

“I don’t remember,” I lied.

“You said, ‘Not your time, soldier.’ Then you went back.” His voice broke. “You went back. You went back for Mendees. Then you went back for Carver. You dragged all three of us to the exfil point.”

He was openly weeping now, the silent tears of a man who had held this in for five years.

“I was fading in and out on the helo,” he said. “But I remember your voice. You were working on me, talking to me. You kept saying it. ‘Keep fighting. Stay with me. Keep fighting.’”

He stepped closer, his eyes searching mine, begging me. “I’ve heard that voice in my nightmares and my prayers every single night for five years. And today… I heard it on the range. Critiquing a General’s trigger control.”

He looked at me, his face a ruin of grief and dawning realization. “It was you. Wasn’t it?”

I couldn’t speak. My wall, the one I had built from the bones of my team, had crumbled. I couldn’t deny this man. He wasn’t asking about a coin. He was bearing witness to my deepest secret, the one I shared with the dead.

I gave a single, slow nod.

He let out a breath that sounded like a sob. He staggered back and put a hand against the target stand to steady himself. “Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m… I’m alive because of you.” He looked up, his expression changing from awe to a sudden, cold dread. “Oh my god,” he said again, but this time in terror.

“Reeves,” I said, my voice hoarse. “The CO,” he said, his eyes wide. “The man who gave the order to abandon us. The man who panicked and ran.” “Sir…” “It was Blackwood. Harlon Blackwood was our CO.”

The final piece clicked into place. Zephyr knew of the op. Reeves was part of the op. And Blackwood… Blackwood was the reason for the op.

He hadn’t been testing me on the range. He had been reminding me. He recognized my name. He had put me on the range to humiliate me, to show me he was still in charge, that my presence meant nothing. He was the Undertaker, and he was telling me he could bury me, too.

“He knows,” Reeves said, his voice frantic. “He must know who you are. Your name… he’s not just embarrassed, Thorne. He’s terrified. You’re the one person alive who saw him panic. Who knows he’s a fraud. He didn’t get his third star despite that night. He got it because of it. The official report… it says he led the rescue. It says he pulled us out.”

A cold, hard fury, purer than any I had ever felt, settled in my stomach. He hadn’t just buried my team’s legacy. He had stolen it.

“He will try to bury you, Sergeant,” Reeves said, grabbing my arms. “For good. He can’t let you walk around. You’re a living, breathing witness to his lie.”

As if summoned by the devil himself, a runner, a young private, jogged onto the range, breathing hard. “Staff Sergeant Thorne?” “I’m Thorne.” “Sir… uh, ma’am… General Blackwood wants to see you. In his office. 1800 tomorrow.” Reeves and I looked at each other. The runner corrected himself. “Sorry, ma’am. Not tomorrow. He wants you now.”

---

The walk to the command center was the longest of my life. Reeves had wanted to come. I told him no. This was my fight. If I was going to be buried, I wouldn’t pull him into the grave with me.

The compound was dark, quiet. My boots on the gravel were the only sound. I felt like I was walking to my own execution.

As I approached the command center, a figure darted out from the shadows of the motor pool. It was Captain Sorrel, the range safety officer. He looked terrified. “Sergeant!” he whispered, his eyes wide. “Captain? What is it?” “I shouldn’t be here. He’ll have my stripes. But… I was on duty in the command tent. I overheard him.” “Blackwood?” “He’s been on a secure line for hours. All afternoon. Screaming at someone at the Pentagon. He was pulling your file.” My heart hammered. “My file?” “He was trying to get your unredacted service record. He was… he was furious. He kept yelling, ‘I don’t care what clearance it is, I’m a three-star, you will release it!’” “And?” “And that’s the weird part, Sergeant,” Sorrel said, his voice dropping even lower. “They denied him. I heard the other end. ‘Sir, this file is sealed by J-SOC command. We cannot comply.’ Blackwood… he… he threatened to fly to DC. He’s unhinged.”

Sorrel grabbed my arm. “Look, I don’t know who you are. But whatever is in that file, it’s protected by people even Blackwood is scared of. But that makes him more dangerous, not less. He’s a cornered snake. Please… watch your back in there.”

I nodded. “Thank you, Captain.” “Godspeed, Sergeant,” he said, and melted back into the shadows.

So. I had a guardian angel. Someone at J-SOC, the Joint Special Operations Command, had not only blocked Blackwood but had likely been the one to assign me here. This wasn’t an accident. This was a reckoning.

I walked into the command center. The aide at the desk looked up, his face pale. “He’s waiting for you.” He knocked on the heavy oak door. “Enter!” Blackwood’s voice roared.

I stepped inside. The office was immaculate. Trophies, plaques, flags, and photos of Blackwood with senators and presidents. A shrine to his own ego.

He was standing at his window, looking out into the dark. “Staff Sergeant Thorne. Reporting as ordered, sir.” “At ease,” he said, not turning.

He was silent for a full minute. It was a classic interrogation technique. Let the silence build. Let the subject’s fear do the work. I stood at parade rest. My breathing was slow, even. I was no longer a medic. I was Wraith 7. I was in an enemy command post.

Finally, he turned. His face was calm, but his eyes were burning. “Do you know why you’re here, Sergeant?” “I assume it concerns our interaction at the range, sir.”

“Partly,” he said. He walked to his desk and picked up a tablet. He turned the screen to face me. On it was a single document. Heavily redacted. But I could see the title. OPERATION: FALLEN CROWN. After-Action Report. Date: 12 NOV 2019. Location: Romani Province, AFG.

“Interesting reading,” he said, his voice a predatory purr. “According to this report, I led a heroic extraction of three wounded soldiers, personally carrying Major Reeves to safety under heavy enemy fire. An action that earned me… significant commendation. And my third star.”

He set the tablet down and walked around the desk until he was standing directly in front of me, just as he had on the range. “But we both know that’s not what happened, don’t we, Sergeant?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Or should I call you… Wraith 7?”

The name, spoken by him, in this room, felt like a desecration. My blood turned to ice, but I held his gaze.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

“Don’t!” he snapped. “Don’t insult my intelligence. I knew it was you the moment I saw your name on the inbound roster. Thorne. I never forgot the name of the ‘medic’ who showed up on my op and filed a classified dissent.”

“I was sent here to send a message, wasn’t I?” he sneered. “My political enemies at J-SOC. They sent you.”

“I was assigned here randomly, sir.”

“There is nothing random about the Wraith unit!” he roared. He was losing control, his mask of calm cracking. He stalked back to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled something out.

He tossed it onto the desk. It clinked, spinning on the polished wood. A challenge coin. A winged serpent. My breath hitched. It wasn’t mine.

“Where… where did you get that?” I whispered.

Blackwood smiled. A cold, dead smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “A little souvenir. From the body of your team leader. Wraith 1.”

The room spun. I saw red. A white-hot, blinding rage. I pictured, in vivid, tactical detail, five different ways to kill him before his aide could even open the door. I saw my hands on his throat. I saw him gurgling for air.

Breathe, 7. Breathe. This is what he wants. He wants you to break.

“He was carrying six of these,” Blackwood continued, enjoying my reaction. “One for each member of his team. Five were… distributed, I suppose. The sixth was never found.” “Until now,” I finished, my voice hollow. “Until now,” he agreed.

“I’ve spent five years building my career on the foundation of that night, Sergeant,” he said, his voice soft again. “Five years. And now you show up. A ghost. A loose end.” He leaned across the desk. “Your team is dead. Your unit is disbanded. You are a relic. A ghost that should have stayed buried.” He picked up the coin—my team leader’s coin—and tossed it in his hand. “No one will believe the word of a Staff Sergeant with a sanitized file over a decorated three-star General. I buried your team, Sergeant Thorne. I can bury you. And this time… I’ll make sure you stay buried.”

A sharp, triple-rap knock echoed through the room. “What!?” Blackwood bellowed, enraged by the interruption.

The door opened. Major Reeves. Lieutenant Commander Zephyr. And Captain Sorrel. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, a wall of defiance.

“Apologies for the interruption, General,” Reeves said, his voice pure steel. “But we have an urgent matter. We need Staff Sergeant Thorne immediately.”

“This meeting is not finished!” Blackwood shouted.

“With respect, sir,” Zephyr stepped forward. “The J-SOC Commander is waiting on a priority video conference to discuss tomorrow’s joint-branch medevac exercise. He specifically requested Sergeant Thorne’s presence. He’s… not a patient man.”

Blackwood’s face went from red to white. The J-SOC Commander. The very people who had blocked his access to my file. It was a brilliant, perfect lie. He was trapped. To refuse a direct, (fake) summons from the J-SOC Commander would be career suicide.

He looked at me, at the three officers, his eyes promising murder. “Fine,” he bit out. “We will continue this… another time, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. I came to attention. I turned to leave. Then I stopped. I turned back. I walked to his desk. His eyes narrowed. Slowly, deliberately, I reached out and picked up my team leader’s coin from his desk. “This doesn’t belong to you, sir,” I said quietly.

Before he could even form a word, I pocketed it and walked out of the office, the three officers flanking me like a royal guard.

We didn’t speak until we were outside, 100 yards from the command center, hidden in the shadows of the motor pool. The adrenaline was so high I was shaking. “That,” Zephyr breathed, “was too close.” “What happened in there?” Reeves demanded.

I leaned against a Humvee, my legs weak. I pulled the two coins from my pocket. They clinked together in my hand. “He knows,” I said, my voice trembling with rage. “He knows everything. He was the CO. He left Reeves to die. He built his career on a lie.” I held up the coin. “He… he took this from my team leader’s body.”

The three men were silent. The gravity of what I’d said, what Blackwood had done, settled over us. “He’s unhinged,” Reeves said. “He’s not just a coward. He’s a ghoul.” “He’s going to come after all of us now,” Sorrel said, his voice shaking. “He’ll have us all court-martialed for this.”

“He will,” I agreed. “Unless we stop him first.” I looked at them, these three men who had just risked everything for me. “All of you, you need to step back. This is my fight. I won’t have you buried with me.”

“He left me to die, Thorne,” Reeves said, his voice flat and hard. “It’s been my fight for five years. I just didn’t have the ammunition. Now I do.” “He’s a disgrace to the uniform,” Zephyr said. “Talon Team will back whatever you do. You just give the word.” “He fired live rounds at my range,” Sorrel added, his fear being replaced by a hard resolve. “At one of my personnel. He compromised my entire operation. I’ll testify to that.”

I looked at the two coins in my hand. One for the dead. One for the living. “Testimony isn’t enough,” I said. “It’s our word against his. We need to do what he did. We need to use the delegates. We need witnesses.”

A plan began to form. A cold, precise, and incredibly dangerous plan. “Tomorrow,” I said. “0900. He’s scheduled for another demo with the foreign delegates.” I looked at Sorrel. “Captain, you’re going to schedule a ‘joint extraction drill’ at the exact same time, on the same range. Zephyr, your team will be the support element. Reeves… you’ll be our wounded.”

“What are you going to do?” Zephyr asked. I held his gaze. “I’m going to be the narrator. I’m going to recreate Operation: Fallen Crown, step by step, right in front of him and his foreign guests.” “He’ll shut it down,” Reeves said. “Not in front of them,” I countered. “He’s too arrogant. He won’t risk looking weak. We’ll use his ego as a weapon.” “It’s still just our word,” Sorrel argued.

“No,” I said. “We need irrefutable proof.” I turned to Reeves. “The helmet-cam footage. My helmet cam. It was classified, buried along with the op. But I know the file number. I know the server.”

Zephyr’s eyes lit up. “My comms specialist is a wizard. If you have a file number…” “It’s protected by J-SOC,” I said, remembering Sorrel’s warning. “The same people who blocked Blackwood.” A slow, dangerous smile spread across my face. “Maybe… maybe they don’t want it buried. Maybe they just want the right person to dig it up.”

I looked at Zephyr. “Let’s go see your wizard.” The four of us moved as one, disappearing into the darkness. The hunt was on.