“Oh boy, that had to go over well.”
“He did it.” Troy’s brow arched. “Like I said, she’s coming in hot. And with the change, alone.”
Dante looked down at the roster already loaded with his alias. His uniform size. Housing placement. “You planned this a while ago.”
“We had contingency plans for her,” Troy said. “Ford Cox put you on top of a short list.”
Dante exhaled, already calculating what to pack, how to blend. He’d done protection before—hell, he was assigned to Troy’s protection team, but never like this. Embedded, yes, but never in a world where silence was written into the job description, and trust was earned over months, not minutes.
“This is going to get weird,” he said.
Troy nodded. “So don’t make it weirder.”
Dante gave a humorless chuckle. “What’s the call sign for babysitting a McKenna-Johnson?”
Troy’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not babysitting. It’s shielding.”
“Sure,” Dante grabbed the tablet, “just with better lighting and college credit.”
“You’ll do it right.” Troy grew quiet. “Meagan called her her Millenium Falcon. She was outer space with speed.”
Dante opened the door, already turning the mission over in his head.Falcon.
“Dante.” Troy’s voice dropped an octave. “She doesn’t get a second chance.”
Dante paused at the door, his lips tight. “You do remember I was Seventh Cav, right? Ground-pounder. Door-kicker. And now you’ve got me walking into Air Force territory in powder-blue polyester like it's normal.” He smirked. “You realize this is sacrilege, right?”
Troy didn’t even flinch. “You’ll survive. Just don’t salute everything that moves, and try not to break their morale with your posture.”
Dante nodded once and walked out.
COLORADO SPRINGS
The mountain air had teeth.
Dante Olivetti, now Dante Olivo, stepped out of the government SUV, boots crunching gravel outside the temporary NCO quarters tucked behind the cadet area like an afterthought. Every line of concrete and stone was precise, scrubbed, and humming with suppressed intensity.
Dante moved through check-in smoothly. The staff sergeant behind the desk barely glanced up as he stamped the forms,muttered something perfunctory, and slid over a plastic access badge. “Welcome to the Zoo,” he said, deadpan.
His nameplate readTSgt Olivo. His orders were tight, the kind that left no scent trail. As far as anyone in the building was concerned, he was the new performance and conditioning NCO for Lima Squadron.
No one knew what he was here for. And he intended to keep it that way.
His quarters were in one of the efficient and forgettable beige modular buildings, the kind of place built for short-term occupation and long-term anonymity. One room, one bunk, one shared latrine down the hall. Just enough space for a rack, a footlocker, and a vertical wall locker.
He didn’t waste time unpacking. The rucksack went under the bunk. The most important item was a slim matte-black data drive no larger than a car key. He didn't stash it in the footlocker or the desk drawer. That would be amateur hour.
Instead, he slid it into the custom-stitched hem of his regulation PT jacket, a pocket lined with RF-blocking fabric. Not something you'd find in standard issue. Failing that, he had a backup slot carved discreetly into the heel of his dress shoes. They were a holdover from a different life.
Then he made his way to the Athletic Readiness Wing. His office sat off a quiet hallway between the kinesiology lab and a rehabilitation room still smelling faintly of antiseptic and sweat. The room was square, sterile, and industrial, painted in matte gray. It drank the light and gave nothing back. A single frosted window filtered in the high-altitude haze.
The desktop terminal was already on, the welcome screen blinking. He set down his field notebook and a folding blade he kept clipped inside the belt line of his cargos then opened the top drawer. Inside were stashed nitrile gloves, alcohol wipes, and protein tabs in foil blister packs. Clean tools for dirty jobs.
He keyed in his fresh credentials. The squadron roster populated with quiet efficiency.
McKenna, Shannon. Lopez, Mia. Room 213B.
There were no flags and no notations. They were two cadets queued up to endure the crucible. Except she wasn’t just another cadet. Not to Chase. And not to him.
