Not good. I followed the hallway to Colonel Jamison's office. He looked worn; his usually straight tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up, the weight of the whole damn airlift sagging around him.
"Come in, son," he said. "Close the door."
I did.
He didn't waste time. "We've had complaints."
My jaw tightened. "From who?"
"OPC," he said, rubbing his eyes. "That intelligence man you've tangled with."
My breath sharpened with heat.
"Claims of ration misallocation. Unauthorizedmovement outside of mission hours. Reckless flying. Undocumented behavior off-base."
All lies. Every one of them. Jamison leaned back.
"Look, son… I don't buy any of it. But I can't ignore it. Not when it's official. I've got no choice but to open a formal investigation."
Rage pulsed inside me, not the hot, explosive kind, but the deep, coiled kind that made the dragon roll forward under my skin. Jamison held up a hand.
"Whatever you've gotten yourself mixed up in, it's ugly. OPC sharks have teeth. And if they think you're a liability…"
He didn't finish. I already knew. They'd keep coming. After me. After Inga. After the kids.
Unless I cut them off at the knees.
I inhaled slowly. I could threaten the Spook again with my father's connections, but a better idea was forming in my head.
"What if I resign?" I asked.
Jamison blinked. Then sagged back into his chair in relief.
"That," he said, "would make this disappear."
"Honorable discharge?"
"Yes."
A slow, wild grin tugged at my mouth.
He frowned. "You okay, Griffin?"
"I'm more than okay, sir."
Because suddenly everything fell into place: No more Berlin. No more OPC shadows. No more suffocating bureaucracy.
Just freedom.
Montana.
The ranch.
My family.
My people.
Inga.
