Page 7

I stare at my old commander with frozen eyes. “Bane?”

He takes the gun from my hands.

“Trying to kill me again, sergeant?” He unloads the chamber and tosses it in the grass before throwing me a half smile. “All that time out of the field has made you a lousy shot.”

I blink, waiting for the hallucination to fade. His combat boots are caked in mud, a trail leading back the direction I came. He’s dressed in plain clothes—slacks and leather instead of pin-straight uniforms and hair slicked back perfectly, the way he meticulously combs it back every morning. Even his hands, perfectly cleaned, only a subtle hint of dried blood, smudged from where he tried to wash it off. Colonel Bane. He’s really here, and I almost shot him.

“I thought I was being followed,” I answer.

“You were. Your observational skills are shit.”

My shoulders fall forward. The cemetery.

Of course I was being followed.

“Yes sir.”

He smirks, patting my shoulder. “Is that any way to address an old friend?”

He pulls me into a hug before I can answer, the scent of him clinging to me. Always the same—-hair gel and sweet smoke, only this time it’s accompanied by the faint scent of the blood staining his hands. Thick and obvious, it sticks to my tongue. My commander, and the only father I have left.

“Look at you, child.” He pulls me back, hands clasping my shoulders. “All this therapy has made you soft. Where’s that tough exterior I admired about you?”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “It’s just been a shitty day.”

“Clearly. You’re definitely not your father.” His lips press together in a thin line. “I only wanted to surprise you, Helena. I didn’t count on you being so paranoid.”

My confidence slips and Bane smiles. “I’m just kidding.” He laughs. “Lighten up a bit. You used to have a sense of humor.”

I push back, crossing my arms. “Yeah, well that’s what you get for sticking me with a shrink,” I smirk. “Morgan doesn’t appreciate dark humor; thinks I’m masking my insecurities by making jokes or some bullshit.”

“Don’t joke about therapy, Helena,” he snaps. “You’re there for a reason, remember?”

I blink, shame rushing to my chest faster than the memory of the Humvee rolling. A soldier’s mother slaps me across the face when I tell her, screaming that it should’ve been me.

It should have.

A moment of silence passes before he allows me to speak again. “What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be on the Croatian border.”

“Budapest,” he corrects. “We moved inland a few days ago. That’s why I’m here. I’m reinstating you.”

My eyes round and he erupts with laughter.

“I thought you might like that. We were recruiting for a DA strike—”

Excitement vibrates through my body, charging my legs until I find myself hugging him tighter than my arms can handle.

“Thank you, sir!” I say with a wide smile. “I’ll be on the first flight out to base.”

His hand catches my arm just as I brush past him when he yanks me back. His grip is firm—too firm, and when I attempt to pull away, something dark passes over his face—only for a moment—where his eyes blacken and his grip turns white.

Then, it’s gone. He releases me with a disappointed sigh, quickly wiping his hands with the cloth in his pocket. Beads of red form crescents on my skin, matching the ones now under Bane’s nails.

“I didn’t come here for the DA strike in Budapest. That’s already been done. I’m here for a different purpose.” He eyes me when I don’t answer, tucking a hair behind my ear with a soft smile. “Oh child, we have so much to talk about.”

The throbbing in my arm eases to a dull ache that’s drowned out by the pain as I chew on my lip, waiting for the right time to ask. “So why are you here?”

He nods towards the alley.

“Care for a drink?”

My apartment is cold. I only use it to sleep, if I do. I prefer to move about town on foot. The grass around the complex is worn from the constant footpath I patrol most nights, but I prefer it that way. It keeps me safe, reminds me of what I should be doing—improving. It’s a skill, staying awake, staying alert. Every day you stray from using a muscle, it weakens.

The couch has remained untouched since I arrived home, though Bane doesn’t seem to mind the cloud of dust that kicks up when he sits down.

He sips his coffee with a groan. “The people who say coffee isn’t good for you should be shot. I don’t know a soul on this earth who isn’t happier after drinking some French roast.”

It takes all of my willpower not to plunge into a series of desperate questions and pleas. Where is he sending me? Why is he reinstating me? Does he think I’m ready? Will I—

“If you keep holding your breath like that, you’re going to pass out.” He nods towards the chaise. “Sit. Relax.”

I sit without question. The soft fabric pulls me in, forcing me to lean back and wait in silence.

The coffee splashes when he tips it back carelessly. Droplets sear onto my bruised skin. My fingers twitch, but I keep them still.

“Alright, let’s move on.” He sets down a manila folder. There’s no label, only a large black star fitted neatly inside of a circle.

He gives me an expectant look and finally, I allow myself to breathe.

Dozens of pictures spill out, every single one filled with fires and blood and dead soldiers, their faces twisted in agony and fear. Some are scattered across deserts and forests, but the ones that catch my attention are the ones taped to the inside of the folder—three photos detailing a series of small warehouses in a courtyard, cut off by the black iron gate in that background. Blood is splattered along several warehouses with bodies and red grenades scattered everywhere.

The last picture is taken inside one of the titanium warehouses—a young soldier slumped against the wall with a star carved into his cheek. His arms are crossed over his eyes in one picture. In the other, the hands are gone, and so are the eyes.

“A few years ago, there was an attack in Libya that hit one of our embassies along the coast.” He points to a picture, one that depicts a desert. Smoke billows out past the dunes and into a nearby town. Civilians are running from a building on fire while the soldiers are running towards the flames.

“The Department of Defense issued a statement that the group be apprehended alive.” He hesitates on another picture, that same dark look passing over him before it disappears. “Several months later, there was an attack on American soil. We tracked them all the way to Austria and they were presumed dead in the mountains, but they resurfaced about a year ago and stole some intel from one of our operatives.”

My heart spikes.

“So the men from Syria–”

“We don’t have confirmation yet,” he says, snatching the folder from my hands. “I’m putting together a small extraction team to locate the terrorist cell and recover the intel that was stolen. There will be a briefing when you arrive at base.” He stands. “You will get the information along with everyone else.”

“I’ll be ready to leave immediately.” I scramble from the dusty couch and snatch up the suitcase, always resting by the door.

Bane stops me before I have a chance to open the door.

“Sir?”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t think I need to tell you this will be kept a secret.”

I nod. “Understood, sir.”

“Good.” He releases me and opens the door.

I should be grateful. I should let it go, but one question lingers on my mind that hasn’t been answered.

“Why now? The board denied my appeal. After what I did–”

“What happened in Syria was an accident. An accident .” He repeats the word with a look that forces my eyes back to the ground.

“The report says it was a mechanical malfunction; a tragic accident that our base mechanics took blame for. That’s what the board believes, that’s what the families were told, and that’s what you will continue to tell anyone who asks.”

I nod. I was never told who Bane faulted. He said my guilt wouldn’t be able to take it, and he’s right. Someone else took the fall, and even if there were terrorists at fault, it’s the officer’s job to ensure the safety of the troops. My job.

“Helena…” He sighs. “No one should have been blamed for such a petty mistake.”

“I drove into a minefield.”

“No,” he says tightly. “You were ambushed by a group of terrorists that took the lives of your platoon. You and Lt. Nadir were lucky to escape with your lives, and the supervising mechanic was discharged for not following procedure.”

Red brandishes around his face, outlining the vein that shows when he’s angry. “I’m giving you a second chance here. Not a lot of people in the military get those, but I’m doing it as a favor to your father. Don’t make me regret that. The families may not be so happy to learn the real killer is walking around unpunished.”

It would sound like a threat if I hadn’t known him since I was seven. I’ve already been punished. I spent a year on forced sabbatical—a year of nothing but talking about my feelings while everyone else runs at the sight of me. But Bane’s never cared what other people think.

“Thank you, sir.” I smile.

The door swings open and he steps out with a swift nod. “You can report to base immediately. Briefing will be at 1700 hours.” He pauses mid-step, head turning just enough so I hear him, “Good to have you back, Captain Kinsley.”

The door clicks behind him, silencing the gasp that falls from my lips. Captain. He didn’t stutter. He wanted me to hear it. My hands are trembling, shaking faster than my racing heart. Captain Kinsley. My father, my grandfather, and now me.

I glance back at the couch, the file resting where Bane sat, a small slip of paper resting on top.

Vienna

Austria. The same place the terrorists were presumed dead.

Closing the file, I tuck it into my suitcase, Bane’s words stuck in my head all the way to the airport.

Captain Kinsley.