The border was three hundred miles behind me, but the dust of the Zagros mountains still coated the back of my throat. Or maybe that was just the taste of dying.
I didn’t look like Colonel Elizabeth Moore, holder of the Distinguished Service Cross and the Silver Star. I looked like something the desert had chewed up and spat out because I tasted too bitter. I was walking along Highway 90, the heat radiating off the asphalt in shimmering waves that distorted the horizon. It was 104 degrees in the shade, and there was no shade.Cars whizzed by. Civilians in air-conditioned bubbles. A pickup truck slowed down, the driver rolling down the window to spit tobacco juice near my boots.“Get a job, junkie!” he yelled, accelerating away in a cloud of exhaust.
I didn’t flinch. Loud noises usually triggered the panic—the flashbacks to the metal door slamming shut—but right now, I was too focused on the gate.
Fort Ramsay.
The sign ahead loomed like the pearly gates of heaven: FORT RAMSAY – HOME OF THE 1ST ARMORED DIVISION. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
I stopped. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Three years.
One thousand and forty-two days.
That was how long it had been since I drove out of this gate in a staff car, crisp and clean, heading for a deployment that was supposed to last six months.
I checked the perimeter. The fences had been upgraded. Razor wire topped with motion sensors. The cameras were the new Raytheon models—pan-tilt-zoom with thermal imaging. I knew them. I had signed the purchase order for them.
I knew that Camera 4-B, located near the drainage culvert on the west side, had a firmware glitch. It rebooted every day at 11:15 AM due to overheating. It went blind for exactly forty-five seconds.
I checked the sun. High noon.
I waited.
I watched the camera LED flicker from green to amber.
Now.
I slid into the ditch. The water was stagnant, smelling of oil and rot. I crawled on my belly, dragging my bad leg, sliding under the gap in the chain-link where the ground had eroded. The mud coated my fresh burns, stinging like acid.
I squeezed through.
He took off his sunglasses. His hands were shaking.
He walked toward me. He didn’t run. He walked with the slow, terrified steps of a man approaching a bomb that might go off.
Miller snapped to attention. “General! Sir! I caught an intruder! She was impersonating—”
“Shut up,” Hale said. He didn’t shout. He just said it with a lethal quietness that made Miller clamp his mouth shut so hard I heard his teeth click.
Hale walked past Miller. He stopped behind me.
He reached out a hand, hovering inches from my scarred back, afraid to touch. Afraid I was an illusion.
“Elizabeth?” he breathed.
I turned around.
I looked at the man who had recruited me out of West Point. The man who had pinned my Colonel’s eagles on my shoulders. The man who had sent me on that mission.
“Hello, Tom,” I said. I tried to salute, but my arm wouldn’t lift past my shoulder. The nerve damage. “Permission to come aboard?”
Hale made a sound I had never heard a General make. A broken, sobbing sound.
He pulled me into a hug.
“Careful,” I winced. “My ribs.”
He pulled back immediately, his eyes frantic, scanning my face, my emaciated arms, the dirt, the blood.
“Oh god, Liz. We thought… the crash… the DNA…”
“I know,” I said. The world was starting to spin faster. The black spots were taking over my vision. “Tom… I need… I need to sit down.”
Hale caught me as my knees buckled. He lowered me gently to the grass—the sacred grass I wasn’t supposed to walk on.
“Medic!” Hale screamed, turning his face to the sky. “GET A MEDIC OUT HERE NOW! MOVE!”
Miller was standing over us, pale as death. “Sir… who is that?”
Hale looked up at the Drill Sergeant with eyes that burned like cold fire.
“You wanted her to prove she was a soldier, Sergeant?” Hale hissed.
He pointed at me.
“This is Colonel Elizabeth Moore. She is the Ghost of Kandahar. She has endured more pain in the last three years than this entire battalion combined. She is the finest officer this installation has ever produced.”
Miller looked at me. He looked at the scars. He looked at the rags. The realization hit him like a physical blow. He dropped to his knees.
“Oh my god,” Miller whispered. “Ma’am… I didn’t…”
“Save it,” Hale barked. He took off his jacket with the three silver stars and wrapped it around my shivering shoulders. “Stay with me, Liz. Stay with me.”
“Tom,” I whispered, grabbing his lapel with my claw-like hand. “Reeves. It was Reeves.”
Hale frowned, leaning closer. “What?”
“The crash,” I rasped, fighting the darkness. “It wasn’t an accident. Reeves sold the flight path. He sold me.”
Hale went still. Stone still.
“My Chief of Intel?”
“Check the accounts,” I managed to say before my eyes rolled back. “Cayman Islands. Ten million. He sold me.”
And then the lights went out.
CHAPTER 4: THE WHITE ROOM
Waking up was a violent process.
I came up swinging. My fist connected with something soft—a nurse’s arm.
“Restrain her! 5mg of Haloperidol, stat!”
“NO!” I screamed. The sound tore my throat. “No drugs! No needles!”
I scrambled backward, pressing my spine against the cold headboard of the hospital bed. I was panting, my eyes darting around the room.
White walls. White sheets. Steel instruments.
Flashback: The White Room in the mountains. The drain in the floor. The car battery on the table.
“CLEAR THE ROOM!”
A commanding voice.
The nurses and doctors froze.
General Hale stood in the doorway. He was still wearing his dress shirt, but he had rolled up the sleeves. He looked exhausted.
“Everyone out,” Hale ordered. “Leave the IV, take the sedatives. Get out.”
The medical staff retreated, closing the door.
Hale walked slowly to the chair beside my bed. He sat down, keeping his hands where I could see them.
“You’re at Fort Ramsay Medical Center,” he said calmly. “Fourth floor. Secure wing. MP guard outside. It’s Wednesday, 1400 hours.”
I stared at him, my chest heaving. “Wednesday?”
“You’ve been out for 26 hours. We had to rehydrate you. And set your ankle.”
I looked down at my left leg. It was encased in a cast.
“Did they count them?” I asked.
“Count what?”
“The scars,” I said. “The Butcher… he liked to count them. He made me count them.”
Hale looked away, his jaw tightening. “The doctors cataloged forty-seven distinct injuries, Liz. Some are years old. Some are days old. You have scurvy. You have heavy metal poisoning from the burns.”
He paused, his voice breaking.
“They broke you, Liz.”
“No,” I said. The word was hard and flat. “They hurt me. They damaged the equipment. But they didn’t break me.”
I tapped my temple.
“I kept the codes safe, Tom. I built a house in here. I locked the doors. They never got inside.”
Hale let out a long breath. “I believe you.”
He leaned forward. “Now tell me about Reeves. Because if what you said on the field is true… I have a traitor sitting in your old chair.”
“It’s true,” I said. “I heard them. The Syndicate leader… he was on the phone. He was arguing about the final payment. He mentioned the account number.”
I closed my eyes, visualizing the notepad I had memorized three years ago.
“Swiss Bank Corp. Account ending in 8842. Routing 099. And the confirmation code… Bluebird.”
Hale went pale.
“Bluebird,” he whispered. “That’s Reeves’ personal clearance handle. Only he uses it.”
“He sold the flight path,” I said. “He knew exactly where I would be. He wanted the promotion. He wanted the money. And he wanted me gone because I was investigating the budget discrepancies in his department.”
Hale stood up, pacing the room.
“I’ll have the MPs drag him out of his office right now.”
“No!” I said.
Hale stopped. “Why not? He’s a traitor.”
“If you arrest him now, he denies it,” I said, my mind sharpening. The soldier was back. “He claims I’m hallucinating. He lawyers up. He wipes the servers. We need hard evidence. We need to catch him with the smoking gun.”
“How?”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The room spun, but I gritted my teeth.
“I’m dead, remember? The official report says I’m ash in the mountains. Reeves thinks he’s safe. He thinks the ‘crazy homeless woman’ on the drill field was just a drifter.”
I stood up, swaying. Hale moved to catch me, but I held up a hand.
“I need a uniform, Tom. I need a computer terminal with Level 5 access. And I need you to trust me one last time.”
Hale looked at me. He looked at the hospital gown, the cast, the bandages. Then he looked at my eyes.
He nodded.
“What do you need?”
“Tonight,” I said. “We go hunting.”
CHAPTER 5: THE PHANTOM IN THE MACHINE
Time: 0300 Hours. Thursday.
Location: Secure Compartmented Information Facility (SCIF), Basement Level.
The hospital discharged me “Against Medical Advice,” but nobody argues with a three-star General, and nobody argues with a dead woman walking.
I refused the wheelchair. I needed to feel my boots on the floor, even if one of them was a medical cast boot. I was wearing a set of borrowed grey fatigues with no insignia. I looked like a janitor, or a ghost.
General Hale escorted me down the freight elevator. The basement smelled of ozone and humming servers.
“I dismissed the night shift,” Hale said, his voice echoing in the concrete corridor. “Just us. The cameras are looped.”
We entered the server room. Walls of black towers blinked with blue and green LEDs. The air was frigid—kept at 60 degrees to protect the hardware. I shivered, the cold biting into my malnourished bones.
I sat down at the master terminal. My hands were the problem. The nerve damage in my right hand made my ring and pinky fingers numb. I had to type with a hunt-and-peck rhythm that frustrated me.
Come on, Liz. You played piano. You dismantled Glocks blindfolded. Type.
I didn’t use the standard login. Reeves would have flagged my old credentials the day he declared me dead.
Instead, I used the Dead Man’s Switch.
Five years ago, when I built the encryption architecture for this base, I buried a kernel-level backdoor deep in the code. A fail-safe.
User: PHOENIX. Password: [REDACTED]
The screen flashed red, then green. ACCESS GRANTED.
“I’m in,” I whispered.
I bypassed the standard firewalls and went straight to the shadow logs. Reeves was arrogant. He thought he had scrubbed the servers. He had deleted the emails from his inbox, yes. But he didn’t know that the base mainframe automatically archived every packet of data sent through the secure line to an off-site black box.
I started digging. 2021. October.
There it was.
Date: Oct 14, 2021. Two days before my mission.
From: COL_REEVES (Encrypted)
To: [External IP – Damascus Proxy]
Subject: Flight Plan 404
Attachment: LZ_Coordinates_Alpha.pdf
I opened the attachment. It was my flight path. The exact extraction point in the Zagros mountains.
“He sent them the map,” Hale said, leaning over my shoulder. His voice sounded sick. “He literally drew an X marks the spot for them.”
“Keep watching,” I said.
I pulled up the financial records.
Date: Oct 18, 2021. Two days after I was shot down.
Incoming Wire: $5,000,000.00 USD.
Origin: Shell Corp (Cayman Islands).
Note: First Installment. Package Secured.
“Package secured,” I read aloud. “That was me. I was the package.”
I kept scrolling. Three years of silence while he spent the money. And then, the smoking gun. An email from yesterday, time-stamped just two hours after I appeared on the Drill Field.
From: THE_BUTCHER (External)
To: COL_REEVES
Subject: PROBLEM.
Body: The bird has flown the cage. We could not stop her. If she reaches the nest, she burns us all. Clean up your mess.
Reply from REEVES:
Body: Understood. If she shows up, she’s a psychiatric case. I’ll have her committed and sedated. She won’t speak.
I sat back, the cold air filling my lungs.
“He was going to lobotomize me,” I said softly. “He was going to throw me in a psych ward and drug me until my brain melted.”
Hale put a hand on my shoulder. It was heavy and warm.
“Print it,” he ordered. “Print it all. Every damn byte.”
The printer whirred to life.
I stared at the screen. My reflection was faint in the glass—gaunt, scarred, terrifying.
“Tom,” I said. “I need my uniform. The Dress Blues. And I need my stars.”
“You’re retired, Liz. Officially.”
“Not until I say I’m done,” I said. “Tomorrow morning, Colonel Reeves is going to find out that ghosts are real.”
CHAPTER 6: THE DEAD MAN WALKING
Time: 0800 Hours. Friday.
Location: Intelligence Wing, Executive Office.
I stood outside the heavy oak door.
I was wearing the Dress Blues Hale had retrieved from storage. The tailor had to take the waist in by four inches, but the shoulders fit.
My chest was heavy with metal. The Silver Star. The Distinguished Service Cross. The Purple Hearts (I added a third one for the last three years).
On my collar, the silver eagles of a full Colonel gleamed.
My left leg was in a walking cast, hidden by the trousers. I leaned on a black ebony cane.
Hale stood behind me, flanked by four MPs armed with M4 carbines.
“Ready?” Hale asked.
“Open it,” I said.
Hale signaled the MPs. One of them kicked the door. It flew open with a crash that splintered the frame.
Colonel Robert Reeves was sitting at his desk—my desk. He was on the phone, laughing. He looked well-fed. Soft.
He spun around, dropping the phone.
“What the hell is this? General Hale? You can’t just—”
Then he saw me.
I stepped out from behind the MPs. I walked into the room, the tap-tap-tap of my cane on the hardwood floor the only sound.
Reeves stopped breathing. All the color drained from his face, leaving him a sickly grey paste. He looked at the scars on my face. He looked at the uniform.
“Elizabeth?” he squeaked. It was a pathetic sound. “No. You… you’re dead. I saw the DNA report.”
“You saw what you paid to see, Bob,” I said. My voice was calm. It was the calm of a sniper adjusting for wind.
I walked up to the desk. I looked at the nameplate: COL. R. REEVES.
I swept it off the desk with my cane. It clattered into the trash can.
“I… I don’t understand,” Reeves stammered, backing his chair into the wall. “I led the search for you! I mourned you!”
“Did you?”
I threw the file folder onto the desk. It landed heavily.
“Did you mourn me when you bought the condo in Dubai? Did you mourn me when you wired the coordinates to The Butcher?”
Reeves looked at the folder. He knew what was inside.
His eyes darted to the top drawer of his desk.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Please. Give me a reason.”
“I…” His hand twitched.
“I know you keep a loaded Glock 19 in there,” I said. “And I promise you, Bob. Even on one leg, even after three years in a hole, I am faster than you. Try it.”
He looked at my eyes. He saw the void there. He saw the things I had done to survive.
He slumped. He didn’t reach for the gun. He reached for a handkerchief to wipe the sweat pouring off his face.
“It wasn’t personal, Liz,” he whimpered. “I had debts. Gambling debts. They threatened me. They said they’d ruin my career.”
“So you sold mine,” I said. “You sold my life. You sold my honor.”
I leaned across the desk, invading his space.
“You know what they did to me, Bob? For a thousand days? They burned me. They carved me. And every time I screamed, I thought of you. I didn’t know it was you then, but I prayed for a target. Thank you for giving me one.”
“Arrest him,” Hale barked.
The MPs surged forward. They hauled Reeves out of the chair. He started screaming.
“I want a lawyer! This is entrapment! You can’t do this to me!”
As they dragged him out the door, I didn’t feel joy. I didn’t feel happiness.
I felt clean. Like a wound that had finally been lanced.
“It’s done,” Hale said.
“Not yet,” I said, adjusting my cuffs. “There’s one more person I need to see.”
CHAPTER 7: THE LESSON
Time: 1000 Hours.
Location: The Drill Field.
General Hale had ordered a full assembly. Five thousand troops—the entire garrison—stood in formation on the parade deck. The sun was high and brutal, just like it had been on Tuesday.
The rumors had spread like wildfire. The ghost returned. The traitor arrested. But rumors are smoke. Soldiers need to see the fire.
I stood on the podium. The wind whipped the flags. My leg throbbed, but I locked my knee and stood tall.
Company Delta—the fifty recruits who had seen me as a vagrant—were front and center.
Drill Sergeant Miller stood before them. He looked like a man walking to the gallows. He was pale, rigid, staring straight ahead.
Hale stepped to the microphone.
“ATTENTION TO ORDERS!”
Five thousand boots slammed together. The sound was like a thunderclap.
“Three days ago,” Hale’s voice boomed, “An intruder entered this base. She was ragged. She was wounded. She was alone.”
Hale paused.
“And she was mocked.”
He turned to me. “Colonel.”
I stepped to the mic. I looked out at the sea of faces.
“At ease,” I said.
The formation relaxed, but the tension remained electric.
“Drill Sergeant Miller,” I said. My voice was amplified, echoing off the barracks. “Front and center.”
Miller broke formation. He marched up the steps of the podium. His movements were stiff. He stopped three paces from me and saluted. His hand was trembling.
“Ma’am. Sergeant Miller reports as ordered.”
I didn’t return the salute immediately. I let him stand there. I let him look at me—really look at me. At the uniform. At the scars on my neck. At the cane.
“You thought I was a junkie, Sergeant,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Miller said. His voice cracked. “I made a mistake.”
“You did,” I said. “You saw a uniform that didn’t fit. You saw dirt. You saw weakness. And you attacked it. Because that is what you are trained to do. Weed out the weak.”
I stepped closer, leaning on my cane.
“But you were wrong about the definition of strength, Miller. Colonel Reeves—the man the MPs just dragged to the brig—he wore this uniform perfectly. He had the medals. He had the rank. And he was weak. He broke without ever being touched. He sold his soul for money.”
I tapped my chest.
“I had nothing. I was naked. I was starving. I was in the dark. And I did not break. That is what a soldier is.”
I turned to the recruits of Company Delta. I saw the boy who had yelled “Disgraceful” at me. He was staring at me with awe and shame.
“The uniform is not the soldier,” I told them. “The uniform is just cloth. It burns. It tears. The soldier is what remains when the cloth is gone. The soldier is the will to endure when the world says ‘die’.”
I turned back to Miller. He was bracing himself for the order: You are relieved of duty.
“I am not firing you, Sergeant,” I said.
Miller blinked, his eyes widening. “Ma’am?”
“You protected the perimeter,” I said. “You challenged an intruder. Technically, you followed protocol. You just failed the moral test.”
I looked him in the eye.
“I am taking command of Training Doctrine for this base. I am going to rewrite the manual. We are going to teach these soldiers that empathy is a tactical asset. That loyalty is more important than shine. And you, Sergeant Miller, are going to be my lead instructor. You are going to learn it with them. Do you understand?”
Miller stared at me. He looked at the second chance I was offering him. The grace I was showing him—grace I had never received in the hole.
Tears spilled out of his eyes. He snapped the sharpest salute I have ever seen in my life.
“YES, MA’AM! THANK YOU, MA’AM!”
I slowly raised my hand. I returned the salute.
“Dismissed.”
As Miller marched back to his platoon, I looked up at the flag.
For the first time in three years, the colors didn’t look grey. They looked bright. Red. White. Blue.
EPILOGUE: THE LONG ROAD HOME
Six Months Later.
They executed Reeves yesterday.
It was a closed military tribunal. The evidence was overwhelming. High Treason. Espionage. Conspiracy to commit murder.
I didn’t go. Hale asked if I wanted to watch, but I said no. I’ve seen enough men die. Reeves is the past. I don’t live there anymore.
I live in a small house just off-base. I sleep on a yoga mat on the floor because the mattress is too soft—it makes me feel like I’m falling. I still hoard food in my desk drawers. I still check the locks three times a night.
The PTSD is a roommate that never moves out. Some days, the sound of a car backfiring sends me under the table, shaking and weeping.
But the days are getting better.
I run the new SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) school at Fort Ramsay. It’s the hardest course in the Army. I teach them how to build the “Mind Palace.” I teach them how to survive the silence.
Drill Sergeant Miller is my right hand. He’s changed. He’s still loud, still tough, but he’s different. He watches his recruits. If one is lagging, he doesn’t scream. He asks why. He builds them up instead of tearing them down.
Last week, Company Delta graduated.
Private Davis—the one who mocked me on the first day—came up to me after the ceremony. He was wearing his dress blues, looking proud.
He handed me a small box.
“For you, Colonel,” he said.
I opened it.
It was a brand new name tape. Embroidered in gold thread.
MOORE.
“So you never have to be without a name again, Ma’am,” he said.
I looked at the kid. I looked at Miller nodding in the background. I looked at Hale, watching from the VIP stand like a proud father.
I smiled. It felt strange on my face, but good.
“Thank you, soldier,” I said.
I walked back to my car. My limp is almost gone now. The cane is just for show.
I am Elizabeth Moore.
I am scarred. I am broken in places that will never heal.
But I am a soldier.
And I am finally, truly home.
I stood up on the other side.
I was inside.
CHAPTER 2: THE SACRED GRASS
The base was a city unto itself. I kept to the shadows of the motor pool hangars, avoiding the MP patrols. My objective was the White House—Command Headquarters. General Hale would be there. He was the only one who could stop the madness in my head. He was the only father figure I had left.
But to get to Headquarters, I had to cross the Drill Field.
It opened up before me like a green ocean—acres of immaculately manicured grass, surrounded by a black asphalt track. In the center stood the flagpole, the Stars and Stripes popping loudly in the hot wind.
Company Delta was in formation.
I froze behind a generator stack, watching them.
Fifty recruits. They were beautiful. That was the only word for it. They were clean. Their skin was unblemished. Their uniforms were pressed so sharp you could cut your finger on the creases. They moved in perfect unison.
Left, right, left, right.
The sound of fifty boots hitting the pavement was a heartbeat.
And there was the shark.
Drill Sergeant Miller.
I remembered him. I had reviewed his NCOER (Non-Commissioned Officer Evaluation Report) years ago. He was a hard charger. High standards. Zero tolerance. He paced the line like a caged predator, his campaign hat pulled low, screaming corrections that I couldn’t quite hear over the rushing blood in my ears.
I had to cross.
I stepped out from behind the generator.
The distance to the other side was two hundred meters. It felt like two hundred miles.
I started to walk.
My gait was uneven. Limp. Drag. Step.
I tried to straighten my spine. You are a Colonel, I told myself. Shoulders back. Chin up.
But my body betrayed me. I was shaking from hypoglycemia.
I was halfway along the track when the shouting stopped.
The silence was sudden.
I looked up.
Drill Sergeant Miller had stopped pacing. He was staring at me.
Fifty pairs of eyes followed his gaze.
“HALT!”
The command hit me physically. I stopped.
Miller turned his body fully toward me. He looked at the recruits, then pointed a knife-hand at me.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he bellowed, his voice carrying across the field. “What in the hell is that?”
He started marching toward me. Fast. Aggressive.
I stood my ground, though every instinct screamed RUN. HIDE. COVER.
He stopped two feet away. He towered over me. He smelled of starch, peppermint, and aggressive masculinity.
“Are you lost, ma’am?” Miller asked, his voice dripping with mock politeness that barely concealed his rage. “The soup kitchen is in town. This is a federal military installation.”
I licked my cracked lips.
“I am… reporting,” I rasped. My voice was broken. The vocal cords were scarred from screaming.
Miller blinked. He leaned in closer, invading my personal space.
“Reporting? You? Look at yourself.”
He gestured to my ragged uniform.
“You look like a walking disease. And what are you wearing? Is that OCP? Is that the uniform of the United States Army?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“WRONG!” Miller screamed right in my face. Spittle hit my cheek. “That is a costume! You have no rank. No unit. No name. You are wearing a halloween costume you pulled out of a dumpster!”
He turned to the recruits, using me as a teaching moment.
“Privates! Look here! This is what we call ‘Stolen Valor.’ This is a civilian, a vagrant, who thinks she can put on our skin and steal our glory! She thinks she is one of us!”
“No,” I said, a little louder. “I am a soldier.”
Miller spun back to me, his face red.
“You are a disgrace! You are disrespecting every man and woman who died for that flag! You want to play soldier? Fine. Let’s see your ID. Let’s see your dog tags.”
“I don’t… have them,” I said. They took them. They melted them down in front of me.
“Of course you don’t,” Miller sneered. “Because you’re a liar. Now, take it off.”
I stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“I said, STRIP!” Miller roared. “Take off that blouse! You are not authorized to wear it. If you don’t take it off right now, I will have the MPs tackle you and rip it off. Do you want to go to jail, lady?”
“Take it off!” A recruit shouted from the formation. “Show some respect!”
The shame washed over me. Not for me, but for them. They didn’t know. How could they know?
But I was too tired to fight.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”
My hands shook violently as I reached for the zipper. The metal tab was hot from the sun.
I pulled it down.
I shrugged the heavy, dirty jacket off my shoulders. It fell to the ground in a heap.
I stood there in the harsh sunlight.
I was wearing a grey undershirt that was barely holding together. The back of it had been torn away during a particularly brutal interrogation session six months ago and never replaced. The fabric hung in tatters around my waist.
“Turn around,” Miller ordered. “Let’s make sure you aren’t hiding any contraband.”
I turned my back to him. I turned my back to the recruits.
The reaction was instantaneous.
It wasn’t a gasp. It was a recoil.
I heard someone retch.
My back was not skin. It was a history of violence.
Three thick, ropy scars—keloids the size of garden hoses—ran diagonally from my left shoulder blade to my right hip. They were purple, shiny, and tight. The brands of The Syndicate.
Surrounding them were the cigarette burns. Dozens of them. Constellations of pain.
And the knife marks.
And the places where the electricity had arced.
“Jesus Christ,” Miller whispered. The aggression fell out of his voice, replaced by horrified revulsion.
“Is that enough proof, Sergeant?” I asked, looking over my shoulder. “Or do you want to see my teeth?”
CHAPTER 3: THE REUNION
Before Miller could answer, the sound of a vehicle tearing across the grass broke the spell.
A black tactical SUV.
It didn’t stick to the road. It jumped the curb, tires chewing up the sacred grass, and screeched to a halt ten yards away.
The door flew open.
General Thomas Hale stepped out.
He was older than I remembered. His hair was completely white now. He was wearing his dress greens, likely returning from a function.
He froze.
He saw the formation. He saw Miller standing there with his mouth open. And he saw the scarecrow standing half-naked in the center.
