Chapter 9 - The Collision at the Terminal
The taxi ride back to Hartsfield-Jackson airport was conducted in near-total silence.
Nico stared out the window at the gray Atlanta traffic, his jaw set, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his knee. The adrenaline of the confrontation in Sterling’s office was beginning to wear off, leaving behind the heavy, grinding reality of what we had just unleashed.
"He's going to do it, Elena," Nico said as the taxi merged onto the highway loop. "Sterling's petty enough to pull my unit's records. Even if I'm clean, a full-scope AFOSI audit will freeze my career for months. My promotion orders won't clear before the transfer window closes."
"Let him try," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the traffic ahead. "Sterling is bluffing about the scope of his authority. If he initiates a retaliatory audit on a Marine unit without a signed IG warrant, Vance and Barrett will have him answering to the base commander by sundown."
"And what about you?" Nico turned toward me, his dark eyes fierce. "You just declared open war on an AFOSI colonel. You can't just go back to your civilian life in Georgia and pretend this never happened."
"I don't plan to," I said.
We arrived at the airport terminal forty minutes later, cleared security with our mobile boarding passes, and found a quiet corner near Gate B22 to wait for our return flight to Jacksonville. The terminal was bustling with travelers, the low roar of announcements and rolling luggage washing over us like white noise.
My phone vibrated in my coat pocket.
I pulled it out. It wasn't a call from Sterling. It was an encrypted text message from an unfamiliar number.
“Major Romano. Terminal B baggage claim. Level one. Come alone.”
Nico saw the screen over my shoulder. "Don't go. It's another trap."
"It's not Sterling," I said, reading the metadata string attached to the text. "Look at the routing code. That's not AFOSI encryption. That's a direct satellite relay from an active tactical wing."
Before Nico could argue, a familiar figure emerged from the crowd near the escalator bank fifty yards away.
It was Gunnery Sergeant Cole Barrett.
He was wearing civilian travel clothes—a heavy canvas jacket and a baseball cap pulled low—carrying a standard military duffel bag over one shoulder. He spotted us, hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then walked directly toward our seats.
Nico stood up, his posture instantly stiffening. "Gunny? What the hell are you doing in Atlanta?"
Barrett stopped in front of us, his face tired, carrying the unmistakable look of a man who had driven straight through the night without stopping for sleep.
"I didn't trust Sterling, Romano," Barrett said, his voice low and rough. "And I didn't trust that your sister would be able to walk out of that building without a detail watching her. Master Gunny Vance and I checked the motor pool rosters early this morning. Two hours after you left Jacksonville, an unmarked black SUV belonging to the regional AFOSI liaison pool pulled out behind your rental."
I looked at Barrett, the cold realization washing over me. "You followed us."
"Somebody had to watch your six," Barrett said simply. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a heavy, standard-issue military data drive—identical to the one planted in Nico's apartment, but bearing a different serial prefix.
"What is that?" Nico asked, staring at the drive.
"That," Barrett said, laying it flat on the armrest between our seats, "is the rest of the file. The part Sterling didn't show you in his office."
I picked up the drive, feeling the familiar, chilling weight of institutional secrets. "Where did you get this?"
"From a buddy I served with at FOB Price back in 2013," Barrett said quietly. "He was the one who pulled the physical wreckage of your aircraft out of the riverbed before the recovery teams arrived, Major. He didn't destroy the data module like the report said. He kept it in a footlocker in Savannah, waiting for the day someone high enough up the chain tried to rewrite what happened in that valley."
I looked up at Barrett, the last missing piece of the puzzle finally falling into place. The missing flight recorder wasn't lost; it had been preserved as an insurance policy by the people who flew the missions against a command structure that viewed them as expendable assets.
"And now Sterling knows you have it," I said.
"He knows," Barrett agreed, his eyes steady. "Which means the moment we land back in Jacksonville, we aren't going back to the townhome. We're going to the base legal office to file a formal counter-complaint."
Before anyone else could speak, the departure gate PA chime sounded overhead, announcing the final boarding call for Flight 812 back to Jacksonville.
May you like
Nico looked at me, then down at the data drive resting in my hand, and finally at Barrett. The uncertainty that had defined our relationship since I walked into the bar in Jacksonville was gone, replaced by the hard, unbreakable bond of shared survival.
"Let's go home," Nico said.
