For several seconds after Brennan spoke, nobody moved.
Sarah remained on one knee, one palm pressed against the black mat and the other wrapped lightly around her throat.
Every breath scraped on the way down.
Not badly.
Not enough to frighten her.
Enough to make her remember.
She lifted her head.
Brennan was already looking somewhere else.
That was the first thing that bothered her.
Most men who crossed a line watched for the reaction.
They wanted anger, humiliation, fear—some proof that the person they had hurt understood who held the power.
Brennan seemed almost indifferent.
Almost.
But Sarah had spent too many years studying people under pressure to mistake discipline for innocence.
His jaw was locked.
His right hand was clenched once at his side before relaxing.
And when Captain Doyle, the senior officer observing the session from beside the equipment cage, finally cleared his throat, Brennan’s eyes shifted toward him for less than half a second.
A glance.
Nothing more.
Yet Sarah saw it.
Doyle said, “Reset.”
That was all.
No reprimand.
No question about why Brennan had ignored a tap.
No concern about the lieutenant commander kneeling on the floor with a red line forming across her neck.
“Sir?” one of the younger Marines said.
Doyle turned.
The Marine immediately straightened.
“I said reset, Corporal.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bodies began moving.
The circle broke apart.
Gloves were collected.
Mats were rearranged.
Men and women who had just watched one instructor ignore the most basic safety rule in combat training suddenly found reasons to look anywhere except at Sarah.
She rose slowly.
Brennan walked past her.
Close enough that only she could hear him.
“Control your breathing next time.”
Sarah turned her head.
He did not.
She almost smiled.
Not because anything was funny.
Because Brennan had just made his second mistake.
The first had been keeping the choke after she tapped.
The second was assuming she believed the demonstration had been about training.
—
Twenty minutes later, Sarah stood alone in the women’s locker room beneath fluorescent lights that hummed with a faint electrical buzz.
She faced the mirror.
The woman staring back looked composed.
Dark hair secured neatly.
Shoulders square.
Expression flat.
Only the bruise betrayed her.
A reddish-purple band crossed the side of her neck.
She touched it with two fingers.
Pain radiated beneath the skin.
She swallowed.
Tenderness.
No significant obstruction.
No dizziness now.
She could have walked straight to medical.
She could have filed an incident report.
She could have demanded Brennan be removed from instruction pending investigation.
Those would have been reasonable actions.
Predictable actions.
Sarah Garrett had survived sixteen years in Naval Special Warfare partly because she understood the difference between what was reasonable and what was useful.
She removed her phone from the locker.
No personal devices were permitted inside the main training bay, but the locker area was outside the restricted zone.
Three missed calls.
All from the same number.
No caller ID.
Sarah stared at the screen.
Then a text appeared.
YOU WERE WARNED TO LEAVE THIS ALONE.
Her expression did not change.
Another message arrived.
TRANSFER PAPERS.
SIGN THEM.
Sarah read it twice.
Then deleted neither message.
She took screenshots, encrypted them, and uploaded them to a storage account registered under a name that did not officially belong to her.
A shadow moved beneath the locker-room door.
Sarah went still.
Someone was standing outside.
No knock.
No voice.
The shadow remained for four seconds.
Then disappeared.
Sarah quietly put the phone away.
She opened her locker and removed a gray sweatshirt.
Inside the folded garment was a small black flash drive.
She slipped it into her pocket.
Three weeks earlier, Sarah had not known Brennan existed.
Three weeks earlier, she had not known Captain Doyle’s training command had received almost eight million dollars through a logistics subcontractor that officially employed four people.
Three weeks earlier, she had believed the missing ammunition reports were administrative mistakes.
Now she knew better.
And apparently, so did someone else.
—
Her investigation had started with eleven rifles.
Not stolen rifles.
That would have been simpler.
These weapons existed on paper, passed inspection on paper, moved between armories on paper, and were eventually marked as transferred to a foreign partner unit during a multinational exercise.
Except that foreign unit had never received them.
Sarah had discovered the discrepancy while reviewing readiness files ahead of an evaluation.
Eleven rifles became thirty-two.
Thirty-two became sealed crates of optics.
Then suppressors.
Then communications equipment.
Then night-vision units.
Nothing dramatic enough to trigger immediate alarms individually.
Together, they represented a carefully designed pipeline.
Military equipment was vanishing in quantities small enough to escape broad attention, but large enough to generate millions.
Someone had understood the system intimately.
Someone knew exactly which signatures mattered, which records were rarely cross-checked, and which deployments created enough confusion to hide a shipment.
Sarah had submitted a preliminary inquiry.
Two days later, Rear Admiral Leonard Voss had called her personally.
“Close it.”
She had been standing in her office when he said it.
“Sir?”
“You found accounting inconsistencies.
Logistics is correcting them.”
“These aren’t accounting inconsistencies.”
A pause.
Then Voss had lowered his voice.
“Commander, you’re being considered for a major billet next year.
Don’t turn routine administrative friction into a career-defining mistake.”
Sarah remembered staring through the blinds at the harbor beyond her office window.
“Is that advice, Admiral?”
“It’s perspective.”
The call ended.
The following morning, Sarah received temporary orders assigning her to advanced joint-combat evaluation.
At Captain Doyle’s facility.
Where Staff Sergeant Rhys Brennan had nearly rendered her unconscious in front of thirty witnesses.
Coincidence had limits.
Sarah no longer believed she was looking at one.
—
When she left the locker room, Brennan was waiting in the corridor.
He leaned against the concrete wall, arms folded.
Sarah stopped.
Neither spoke immediately.
Finally, Brennan said, “You should get that checked.”
She touched her neck.
“Concerned?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Brennan straightened.
Up close, he seemed even more controlled than he had on the mat.
Forty, perhaps forty-two.
Weathered face.
Gray beginning at the temples.
A scar disappeared beneath his collar.
“Then why are you here?”
Sarah asked.
“To give you advice.”
“I've had enough advice from senior enlisted personnel today.”
His mouth tightened.
“You should listen to this.”
Sarah stepped closer.
“Try me.”
Brennan studied her eyes.
“Whatever you think is happening here, walk away from it.”
There it was.
Not subtle now.
Sarah felt something inside her become perfectly still.
“Interesting choice of words.”
“You don't understand the situation.”
“I understand someone just ignored my submission signal until I nearly lost consciousness.”
“That isn't what I'm talking about.”
“I know.”
For the first time, Brennan’s expression shifted.
Barely.
But Sarah saw surprise.
She continued.
“Eight million dollars through Broadfield Tactical Logistics.
Thirty-two rifles.
Two hundred eighteen optics.
Fifty-seven encrypted radios.
Equipment transferred through phantom inventory numbers and routed through training commands so deployment paperwork can hide the discrepancies.”
Brennan’s face lost all movement.
Sarah lowered her voice.
“Still think I don't understand the situation?”
Footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor.
Brennan moved closer.
When he spoke again, his voice was almost inaudible.
“Stop talking.”
“Afraid someone will hear?”
“Yes.”
That answer caught her.
The footsteps approached.
Captain Doyle turned the corner.
He saw them together.
His pace slowed.
“Everything all right?”
Brennan stepped away.
“Yes, sir.”
Doyle looked at Sarah’s neck.
“Commander?”
Sarah smiled politely.
“Excellent training session, Captain.”
Doyle held her gaze.
Something cold passed between them.
“Glad you found it useful.”
He continued down the corridor.
Sarah waited until he disappeared.
Then she turned back toward Brennan.
He was already walking away.
“Staff Sergeant.”
He stopped.
Sarah spoke softly.
“Don’t forget who I am.”
Brennan looked over his shoulder.
She continued.
“I wasn't assigned to special warfare because I'm difficult to kill.”
Her eyes hardened.
“I was assigned because I'm very difficult to lie to.”
For the first time that afternoon, Brennan smiled.
It was not friendly.
“Then you're in more danger than I thought.”
And he walked away.
—
At 0213 hours, Sarah awakened before the sound fully registered.
Click.
She opened her eyes.
Darkness.
Her temporary quarters were silent.
She did not move.
Click.
The sound came from the door.
Someone working the lock.
Sarah slid one hand beneath the pillow and closed her fingers around the compact flashlight she kept there.
No firearm.
Base regulations prevented personally carried weapons in the temporary housing block.
That did not mean she was defenseless.
A thin line of hallway light appeared beneath the door.
The handle lowered.
Sarah rolled silently from the bed.
The door opened.
A figure entered.
Large.
Male.
He closed the door behind him.
Sarah moved.
The flashlight struck his face before he could react.
He recoiled.
She drove the base of the flashlight into his wrist.
Something metallic hit the floor.
Not a gun.
A syringe.
The man reached for her.
Sarah stepped inside the grab, drove her shoulder against his chest and struck hard beneath his ribs.
He grunted.
His hand caught her sweatshirt.
She twisted free.
The stranger recovered quickly.
Too quickly.
Trained.
He shoved her into the wall.
Pain exploded across her shoulder.
His forearm came across her throat.
For one second, Sarah smelled disinfectant.
Rubber mats.
Old sweat.
Brennan.
Not the man.
The memory.
Her body reacted before thought.
Sarah turned her chin, trapped the attacker’s arm and dropped her weight sharply.
He lost balance.
She drove backward.
His head struck the wall.
Once.
He held on.
Twice.
His grip loosened.
Sarah pivoted, swept his leg and sent him to the floor.
She dropped her knee onto his arm.
“Don't move.”
He did.
Sarah applied pressure.
The man hissed.
She reached toward the bedside lamp.
And the window exploded.
Glass sprayed across the room.
Sarah dropped instinctively.
A suppressed crack followed from outside.
The attacker jerked.
Then stopped moving.
Sarah stared.
A dark spot spread across his shirt.
Single round.
Center mass.
She crawled behind the bed.
Another shot never came.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Then alarms began somewhere outside.
Sarah looked back at the intruder.
Someone had just tried to abduct or drug her.
Someone else had killed him before he could be questioned.
And whoever fired that shot had known exactly which room she was in.
—
Base security arrived in under four minutes.
Captain Doyle arrived in seven.
That interested Sarah.
He appeared in uniform trousers and an undershirt, carrying the expression of a man disturbed by something he had already expected.
“What happened?”
Sarah sat on the edge of an ambulance while a corpsman examined a cut along her forehead.
“Someone entered my room.”
Doyle glanced toward the building.
“Security says forced entry.”
“No.”
He looked back.
Sarah continued.
“He opened the lock.”
The captain’s face remained neutral.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“He attacked me.
Someone outside shot him.”
“Did you see the shooter?”
“No.”
“The intruder say anything?”
“No.”
Doyle nodded slowly.
“You've had quite a day.”
Sarah watched him.
“That almost sounds sympathetic.”
“I don't like losing people under my command.”
“I’m not dead.”
“Exactly.”
The word sat between them.
Doyle seemed to realize too late how it sounded.
He looked toward the security team.
“We'll handle this.”
Sarah laughed once.
Quietly.
Doyle’s eyes returned to her.
“What?”
“You'll handle it?”
“Yes.”
“Captain, someone bypassed a controlled-access lock, entered an officer’s quarters carrying a loaded syringe, then got shot through a window from outside the perimeter.”
Doyle’s jaw tightened.
“This is an active investigation.”
“Then I'm sure Naval Criminal Investigative Service will be interested.”
“They've been notified.”
Sarah watched him for several seconds.
“No, they haven't.”
Doyle said nothing.
Sarah reached into the blanket around her shoulders and removed her phone.
“I notified them myself six minutes ago.”
For the first time, Captain Doyle looked genuinely angry.
Only for an instant.
Then it disappeared.
“Of course you did.”
He turned and walked away.
Sarah watched him go.
Behind her, the corpsman muttered, “Ma'am?”
“Yes?”
“You’re bleeding again.”
Sarah touched her neck.
The bruise from Brennan’s choke had darkened.
But the blood wasn't coming from there.
A shard of glass had cut the skin below her ear.
She stared at the blood on her fingertips.
And understood something.
The events were accelerating.
Whoever wanted her gone had abandoned subtlety.
Which meant she had gotten closer than she realized.
—
NCIS Special Agent Marcus Hale arrived at 0348.
Sarah knew him.
That was unexpected.
Hale had worked a counterintelligence case with her team six years earlier in Bahrain.
Short, broad-shouldered, permanently tired-looking, with the irritating habit of asking questions he already knew the answers to.
He entered the interview room holding two coffees.
“Still drinking it black?”
Sarah accepted the cup.
“Still pretending bad coffee is investigative technique?”
“It gets people talking.”
He sat opposite her.
For the next forty minutes, she explained everything.
The equipment discrepancies.
Broadfield Tactical Logistics.
Voss’s warning.
Her reassignment.
Brennan.
The choke.
The text messages.
The intruder.
Hale listened without interruption.
When she finished, he took a slow drink.
Then said, “You're missing something.”
Sarah frowned.
“What?”
“The shipments.”
“I have the transfer records.”
“No.
You have fake transfer records.”
“I know.”
Hale shook his head.
“Not fake because the equipment disappeared.”
He opened a folder.
“Fake because the equipment never existed.”
Sarah stared at him.
Hale slid several pages across the table.
Serial numbers.
Purchasing codes.
Contract authorizations.
Sarah scanned them.
Then looked up.
“These were paid.”
“Every invoice.”
“But there was no equipment.”
“Correct.”
The implication arrived all at once.
Sarah leaned back.
The missing rifles had never been purchased.
Neither had the optics.
Nor the radios.
The military had paid contractors for equipment that existed only in databases.
Then personnel inside the system created transfer records showing that imaginary equipment had moved overseas.
Millions of dollars could disappear without anyone needing to steal a single crate.
Sarah looked at Hale.
“Broadfield.”
“Shell company.”
“Owned by?”
“That’s where things get interesting.”
Hale slid another page across the table.
Sarah read the corporate filing.
Her eyes stopped.
She looked at him again.
“That can't be right.”
“It is.”
The controlling interest belonged to Morrow Strategic Holdings.
Sarah knew the name.
Every senior officer did.
Morrow had billions in defense contracts.
Security.
Transportation.
Weapons testing.
Satellite services.
Training facilities.
The company had people inside half the major defense conferences in Washington.
Sarah looked down the page.
“Who signed the original subcontract?”
Hale did not answer.
That was when she knew.
“Marcus.”
He reached into the folder.
Removed another document.
Put it in front of her.
Sarah stared at the signature.
Her own name looked back at her.
LCDR Sarah Garrett.
She felt the room tilt.
“I never signed this.”
“I know.”
“Then why is my digital authentication on it?”
“That’s the problem.”
Sarah examined the document.
The signature certificate.
Timestamp.
Authorization chain.
Everything was valid.
Too valid.
Her credentials had approved a contract three years earlier, when she had been deployed aboard the USS Jefferson.
Sarah whispered, “Someone cloned my credentials.”
Hale leaned closer.
“Someone didn't clone them.”
She looked up.
“What?”
“The authentication originated from your secure token.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Apparently not.”
Her mind moved rapidly through possibilities.
Three years earlier.
Jefferson.
Mediterranean deployment.
Command access.
Shared classified workspaces.
Then she remembered.
One night in Naples.
A secure pouch temporarily missing from her cabin.
At the time, nothing had appeared disturbed.
“Who else knows?”
Hale hesitated.
Sarah’s eyes narrowed.
“Marcus.”
“Too many people.”
“How many?”
“Enough that this isn't an investigation anymore.”
He leaned back.
“It’s damage control.”
Sarah stared at him.
“Whose damage?”
Hale looked toward the interview-room camera.
Then back at her.
“That's what I'm trying to figure out.”
The door opened.
A young NCIS agent stepped inside.
“Sir?”
Hale turned.
The agent seemed uncomfortable.
“You need to see this.”
He handed Hale a tablet.
Hale’s face changed.
Sarah noticed immediately.
“What?”
He didn't answer.
“Marcus.”
He turned the screen toward her.
Security footage.
Timestamped forty minutes before the attack.
The camera showed the exterior of Sarah’s temporary quarters.
A dark SUV entered frame.
Stopped.
A man got out.
Sarah recognized him immediately.
Rhys Brennan.
The footage showed Brennan approaching the building.
Then cutting to another camera.
Brennan behind the structure.
Exactly where the sniper would have had a clear angle through Sarah’s window.
Sarah looked at Hale.
“He shot him.”
“Looks that way.”
“No.”
Hale frowned.
“You just watched the same footage I did.”
“Brennan warned me.”
“He also nearly choked you unconscious.”
“If he wanted me dead, he had the opportunity.”
“Maybe that wasn't the objective.”
Sarah stared at the paused image.
Brennan stood beneath a security light, face turned toward the building.
Then she noticed something.
“Zoom in.”
Hale enlarged the image.
Brennan’s left hand.
He was holding something.
Not a rifle.
A phone.
Sarah leaned closer.
“Run the footage forward.”
Hale did.
Brennan raised the phone.
Looked toward the camera.
And held the screen outward.
As if deliberately showing it.
Hale paused.
The image was blurry.
“Can you enhance that?”
The younger agent took the tablet.
“Give me a minute.”
Sarah felt a pressure building in her chest that had nothing to do with Brennan’s choke.
Thirty seconds later, the agent handed it back.
The phone screen was now partially visible.
Four words.
White text against black.
CHECK DOYLE’S LEFT LOCKER.
Sarah stood.
Hale stood with her.
“You're not going anywhere.”
“Marcus.”
“No.”
“Then send someone.”
He hesitated.
That hesitation frightened her more than refusal would have.
Sarah said, “You don’t trust your team.”
Hale looked toward the camera again.
“Right now, I don't trust this building.”
—
They went together.
Hale carried his sidearm.
Sarah carried the flash drive from her locker.
Two NCIS agents followed at a distance.
The training facility was dark when they arrived.
Emergency lights illuminated the corridors.
Captain Doyle was nowhere to be seen.
His office was locked.
The equipment area was not.
They entered.
Rows of metal lockers lined the back wall.
Most belonged to instructors.
Doyle had two.
Right locker.
Personal equipment.
Left locker.
Padlocked.
Hale photographed it.
Then cut the lock.
Inside was a laptop.
Three burner phones.
A pistol.
And a thick brown envelope.
Sarah opened it.
Photographs spilled onto the bench.
Sarah entering her office.
Sarah leaving a restaurant.
Sarah speaking with Admiral Voss.
Sarah jogging near her quarters.
Some were months old.
Hale swore quietly.
Then Sarah saw the final photograph.
She stopped breathing.
The picture showed Staff Sergeant Brennan meeting someone inside a parking garage.
The other person was partially turned from the camera.
Gray hair.
Dress uniform.
Three stars on the shoulder.
Rear Admiral Leonard Voss.
Sarah flipped the photograph over.
Handwritten on the back:
BRENNAN — CONTROL ASSET
Hale looked at her.
“Your friend isn't warning you.”
Sarah kept staring at the picture.
“He’s managing me.”
A sound came from the corridor.
Hale raised his weapon.
The lights went out.
Absolute darkness.
One of the agents shouted.
A crash followed.
Then two suppressed shots.
Sarah dropped behind the lockers.
Hale fired toward the doorway.
A muzzle flash illuminated a figure for an instant.
Masked.
Armored.
Professional.
Then darkness again.
Sarah crawled toward the rear exit.
Someone grabbed her ankle.
She kicked free.
A hand caught her jacket.
Sarah twisted.
An arm locked around her neck.
Again.
For one terrifying fraction of a second, panic surged through her.
Then a voice whispered beside her ear.
“Stop fighting.”
Brennan.
Sarah froze.
He pulled her behind the equipment cage just as gunfire cracked through the room.
Metal sparked where she had been standing.
Brennan pushed something into her hand.
A small pistol.
“Three shooters,” he whispered.
“You shot the man in my room.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He wasn't there to kill you.”
“I know.”
“He was there to take you.”
“Who sent him?”
Brennan looked at her.
Even in the darkness she could see the answer in his face.
“Voss.”
Sarah tightened her grip on the weapon.
“And Doyle?”
“Doyle works for Voss.”
“You?”
Brennan smiled without humor.
“I used to.”
More gunfire.
Hale shouted from somewhere across the room.
Brennan leaned close.
“There's a service tunnel behind the west wall.
Doyle keeps the access key in his office.”
“We're not leaving Hale.”
“Then we all die.”
Sarah looked toward the flashes of gunfire.
Then back at Brennan.
“You expect me to trust you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She pressed the pistol against his ribs.
Brennan did not react.
Sarah whispered, “Now tell me why you ignored my tap.”
For the first time, something like regret crossed his face.
“Because Doyle was watching.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
She stared at him.
Brennan continued.
“Doyle ordered me to put you unconscious.”
Sarah felt cold.
“Why?”
“To test whether anyone in the room would intervene.”
“What?”
“Voss is cleaning the command structure.
Finding out who follows orders, who asks questions, who breaks protocol when something feels wrong.”
Sarah thought about the trainees standing motionless.
The sergeant who almost stepped forward.
The corporal who spoke.
A test.
Not of her.
Of everyone else.
Brennan continued.
“I released you before you went out.
Doyle wasn't happy.”
“So tonight was your second chance?”
“No.”
He looked toward the gunfire.
“Tonight was mine.”
Sarah understood.
Brennan had switched sides.
Or claimed to.
“Why?”
Before he could answer, Hale shouted.
“Sarah!”
She rose slightly.
“Hale!”
“Don't move!”
A light snapped on across the room.
Emergency generator.
For half a second, everyone became visible.
Hale behind a concrete pillar.
One NCIS agent down.
Another crouched near the entrance.
Two masked shooters.
And Captain Doyle standing behind them.
Holding a pistol.
“Drop your weapons!”
Doyle shouted.
Nobody moved.
Doyle aimed directly at Sarah.
“You should have signed the transfer papers.”
Sarah stood slowly.
Brennan stood beside her.
Doyle's expression changed when he saw him.
“Sergeant.”
Brennan said nothing.
“You disappoint me.”
“Get used to it.”
Doyle smiled.
Then looked at Sarah.
“You think you're exposing corruption, Commander?”
“No,” Sarah said.
“I think I already did.”
Doyle laughed.
“You found accounting tricks.”
“I found you.”
“You found the bottom floor of a hundred-story building.”
Sarah’s smile disappeared.
Doyle continued.
“Broadfield isn't theft.
It's funding.”
“For what?”
“Things Congress can't know about.”
“That excuse has buried a lot of crimes.”
“You have no idea what you're standing inside.”
Doyle’s eyes shifted toward Brennan.
“Tell her.”
Brennan remained silent.
Doyle laughed again.
“She doesn't know?”
Sarah looked at Brennan.
“Know what?”
Brennan’s face tightened.
Doyle raised his pistol slightly.
“Go ahead, Sergeant.
Tell Lieutenant Commander Garrett why Admiral Voss chose her credentials.”
Silence.
Sarah felt her pulse in her bruised throat.
“Rhys.”
Brennan finally looked at her.
And what Sarah saw in his expression frightened her more than the gun pointed at her.
Because Brennan was afraid.
Not of Doyle.
Of the truth.
“Three years ago,” he said quietly, “Morrow Strategic Holdings wasn't trying to steal your credentials.”
Sarah waited.
Brennan swallowed.
“They were trying to activate them.”
“What does that mean?”
Doyle smiled.
Brennan stared directly into Sarah’s eyes.
“Your authentication key was built into the program from the beginning.”
Sarah felt the room narrow.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
“Why would my credentials be built into something created before I ever reviewed the contracts?”
Brennan answered.
“Because the program belongs to you.”
Sarah went completely still.
Doyle’s smile widened.
Hale looked from Brennan to Sarah.
“What program?”
Brennan did not take his eyes off her.
“Ask her what happened in Kandahar in 2014.”
Sarah’s face emptied.
Nobody in the room moved.
Hale said quietly, “Sarah?”
Her hand began to tremble.
Not from fear.
From memory.
A basement beneath a burned-out communications facility.
Seven men around a steel table.
A classified proposal.
A system designed to move personnel, equipment and money without leaving conventional procurement trails.
A contingency network built for denied environments.
A network Sarah had helped design when she was a young intelligence officer.
A network she had been told was never approved.
She whispered its name.
“Black Harbor.”
Brennan nodded.
Doyle’s smile vanished.
And somewhere beneath the facility, a heavy mechanical lock disengaged.
A door nobody had touched began opening.
Brennan turned toward the sound.
His face drained of color.
“That shouldn't be possible.”
Sarah looked at him.
“What?”
He stared toward the darkness beyond the west wall.
“Black Harbor just recognized you.”
A green light appeared above a hidden doorway.
Then a mechanical voice spoke from inside the wall.
“Identity confirmed.”
Everyone froze.
The voice continued.
“Welcome back, Commander Garrett.”
Sarah stared into the opening.
And heard the final words that changed everything she believed about the conspiracy.
“Primary authority restored.”
…If you want to know what happened next, please type “YES” and like for more.
Source: Stories of Destiny · Thanh Thanh
