Her hand moved.
Fast. Practiced.
Decades of training compressed into a single motion.
She reached into her pocket.
"Micah," she said, her voice steady now. Clear. "Take care of her."
Micah tensed, his hand moving toward his sidearm.
But Victoria was faster.
Her hand came back out holding a small pistol—black, compact, deadly.
"I hope you're a better man than your father," she said.
And before either of us could move, before I could shout or reach for her or do anything?—
She pressed the barrel to her temple.
And pulled the trigger.
30
MICAH
The gunshot echoed across the water, flat and final, swallowed almost immediately by the wind and waves.
Victoria crumpled.
Not gracefully. Not like the movies.
She just ... stopped. Her body folded, puppet strings cut, and hit the sand with a sound I'd heard too many times before.
Dad moved first.
He dropped to his knees beside her, hands reaching but not touching, like he couldn't quite bring himself to confirm what we both already knew.
She was gone.
I stood there, frozen, my hand still halfway to my sidearm—useless, too slow, too late.
The lantern flickered. The wind kept blowing. The marsh didn't care.
"Micah," Dad said, his voice hoarse. "Call it in."
I pulled my radio with numb fingers. "Dominion Hall actual, we need immediate evac. One ... one casualty. Non-hostile."
The response was immediate. Professional. No questions.
The helicopter arrived within minutes, rotors cutting through the night like judgment.
Two men disembarked with a body bag—black, heavy-duty, the kind that said this wasn't their first time.
They worked efficiently. Respectfully.
Dad watched every second of it, his face carved from stone, grief etched into every line.
