She hadn’t planned to find this. Hadn’t gone looking for it, but now she had it. And it was enough to get someone killed.
The barrack was still. Quiet. Canvas walls pressed in heavy and unmoving, holding too much heat, not enough air. The low hum of generators buzzed in the background.
She crossed to her cot, sat down, legs folding underneath her. Her laptop was already open. One keystroke and the footage rolled.
The footage was grainy at first, then clearer, a group of men in American fatigues standing too close to insurgents, talking too quietly. Her stomach twisted.
The camera caught just enough, light glinting off rank patches, shadows slicing across faces in flickers. Not enough to go public, but enough to know what she was seeing. This was betrayal, carved into pixels and timecodes.
She watched it twice. Three times. Then her hand hovered over the keyboard, frozen mid-thought.
She couldn’t tell Ghost. Not yet. Not when it could get him killed. He was too close. Too principled. Putting this in his hands would make him a target. It would drag his team into the fallout. It would get him killed.
That kiss, they hadn’t spoken about it. Hadn’t dared, but it lived behind every breath since. Every glance. Every silence. And none of it mattered now. Not if she couldn’t protect him from this.
A sound broke her stillness. Outside. Soft but intentional, boots shifting sand beneath careful weight. Rachel's spine went rigid. Her breath locked.
The canvas wall at her back rustled, barely, but enough to make the hair rise along her arms. A shadow passed, long and patient.
Someone was watching. She reached for her pack slowly, unzipping it in silence. Her fingers slipped into the inner pocket and found the thumb drive, cool metal, solid and undeniable. She palmed it while forcing her body to stay relaxed, her posturecasual. Backlit by the laptop's glow, she leaned forward as though studying her notes. Inside, her pulse hammered.
The shadow lingered a beat too long before disappearing as suddenly as it had come. Her hands trembled despite her control. She held perfectly still, listening hard. One heartbeat. Two. Nothing but the distant hum of generators and muffled voices, yet her instincts screamed danger. She wasn't alone anymore, and whoever was out there knew she'd seen too much.
The thumb drive dug into her palm, sharp corners branding her skin. It had transformed from simple storage into something weightier, leverage, perhaps, or her execution order. She stood slowly, knowing the choice ahead would define everything.
She grabbed the satellite phone from her duffel. Fingers flew through the code and encryption layers. One ring, two, then a voice—sharp, clipped, familiar. “Miles.”
She didn’t waste time. “I got it. It’s not what we planned on, but it’s big Miles.”
A pause, then his voice dropped lower. “How bad?”
“Worse than we thought. Confirmed military personnel. Weapons. Strategy files. Maps. Coordination with local insurgents.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’ve got it all. Audio. Visual. Faces, but I need out early.” She crossed to the door, peering through the window, watching shadows twitch and move in the dark. “I’ll talk to Anders in the morning. Ask for expedited transport.”
“You’re damn right you will.” Miles exhaled. “Get back stateside and start prepping for fallout. This isn’t just a story, it’s a career-ender.”
Rachel's fingers closed harder around the drive. “It’s more than that.”
“You trust anyone on the ground?”
One name caught in her throat. Ghost, but she didn’t say it. Not yet. “No,” she said flatly.
“Then get back. Don’t talk. Don’t move. Don’t trust. You don’t exist until I say so.”
“Copy.” She clicked the call off.
The silence grew oppressive, air thickening as though the shadows beyond the tent walls sensed what she'd found. She stared at the drive in her trembling hand. It contained names, routes, compromising deals, everything. But more than that, it now held her entire future, however long or short that might be.
21
Rachel was barely holding it together. Adrenaline kept spiking with nowhere to go. Everything felt too exposed, her movements, her presence. She couldn't breathe naturally anymore, had to remind herself to inhale, exhale, repeat.
Her bag never left her side. Strap across her shoulder. Grip white-knuckled. It hadn’t left her since last night. Not while she showered. Not while she moved through camp. It sat beside her like a coiled secret, one she couldn’t afford to set down.
Before breakfast, she’d gone straight to Commander Anders’s office. The story was simple. Professional. Detached. Assignment completed. Appreciated the access. Needed early transport out.
