Chapter 7 - Page Four
The kitchen table felt too small, too ordinary, illuminated by the single amber bulb of the overhead fixture while the mountain storm battered the windowpanes outside.
I didn't invite the major inside. He stood just inside the threshold, water dripping in a slow puddle onto the linoleum, his eyes scanning the modest, peaceful layout of our home with the mechanical efficiency of a perimeter scout.
I flipped open the dossier. The pages smelled of fresh printer toner and damp paper.
Page one: operational summary. Page two: satellite reconnaissance grids. Page three: asset manifest.
I skipped straight to page four.
At the center of the page was a high-resolution aerial photograph of a private, high-security experimental logistics facility nestled deep in the rugged canyons of western Colorado—barely two hours from Silver Creek. Stamped across the top in bright red ink was a classification that hadn't existed when I wore the uniform: RESTRICTED-BLACKSITE DIRECTIVE OMEGA.
And right beneath the photograph, listed under the primary tactical consultant assigned to oversee the facility's perimeter defense audit, was a name that made my breath catch in my throat.
Lieutenant Colonel Marcus Vance.
My old battalion XO from the 75th. A brilliant tactician, a fiercely loyal friend, and, as of forty-eight hours ago, reported missing in action along with thirty-two private security contractors after an internal perimeter breach at the blacksite.
“Marcus went off-grid?” I whispered, looking up from the dossier to meet the major’s steady, somber eyes.
“He didn't go off-grid, Colonel,” the major said grimly. “The facility went dark. Automated defense systems were tripped, internal vault doors were locked from the inside, and the emergency distress beacon broadcasted a single pre-recorded string of binary code—a code that only one person outside of active command was programmed to recognize and decode.”
He tapped the bottom margin of page four with a gloved finger.
My call sign from our third tour together.
Ghost-Six.
“They didn't just lose a facility,” I muttered, the pieces locking together with terrifying clarity. “Whatever they were developing in those canyons—whatever experimental tech or classified ordnance Marcus was guarding—has fallen into hostile hands. And whoever took it knows my name.”
The kitchen seemed to close in around me. For eighteen months, I had convinced myself that the war was a closed chapter, that I could trade the tactical map for a quiet suburban life, cut my own grass, and watch Noah grow up without the constant, gnawing dread of a midnight knock at the door.
That illusion died right there on page four.
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“When does the transport arrive?” I asked, closing the dossier with a sharp slap that echoed in the quiet house.
The major’s lips tightened into a grim line. “Zero-four-hundred hours. At the end of your cul-de-sac. Bring your gear.”
