Chapter 5 - The Pentagon’s Directive
“I have to go,” I said, locking my phone screen with a sharp click and slipping it back into my pocket.
Ryan stepped forward, his military training instantly kicking in. “I’m coming with you. My leave orders are still active until Monday, and my unit is directly tied into the Pacific logistics chain.”
“No,” I told him, shaking my head. “You stay here. Someone needs to handle the fallout with the venue, the caterers, and whatever is left of this disaster before the local press picks up on an NCIS raid at a country club rehearsal dinner.”
Lily looked up, her eyes wide and red-rimmed. “Nora... what’s going to happen to us?”
I looked down at my younger sister—the girl who had worn my stolen dress to a funeral in another life, the girl who had unknowingly walked into a trap built by a con man. The anger inside me softened just enough to feel a hollow, aching pity.
“You’re going to pack your bags, Lily,” I said quietly. “And you’re going to find a real lawyer, because everything Alan bought with those funds is going to be seized by the federal government before midnight tomorrow.”
Auditor Thorne stepped beside me, gesturing toward the exit. “Commander, my vehicle is outside. The JAG investigator wants a direct debriefing at the base command center before the midnight briefing.”
“Lead the way,” I said.
I turned and walked away from the head table, my boots clicking rhythmically against the polished hardwood floor of the country club. I didn't look back at my mother. I didn't look back at the ruined tables, the melting ice sculptures, or the shattered illusion of home.
When I pushed open the heavy glass doors and stepped out into the crisp February night, the cold wind hit my face like a splash of salt water—sharp, awakening, and entirely real.
A black sedan with government plates idling at the curb flashed its headlights.
I walked down the steps, pulling my coat tighter around my shoulders, ready to face whatever tribunal awaited me inside the gates. But as I pulled open the car door and slid into the leather seat, my phone buzzed with an incoming email notification.
May you like
It wasn't from the Pentagon JAG office.
It was an encrypted file sent from an unknown civilian proxy server, labeled with a single, chilling subject line: The real reason Alan targeted your carrier group.
