Chava’s breath hitched faintly. “Same as the one Krueger drew in his debrief.”
Paulsen's voice returned, sharper now. “We pull back. Get footage. Roadie, Crown, Friend, you fall back northeast. Sabra, you’re with me. Full extract in fifteen. No hero shit.”
“Copy.”
But then…the rumble. Low and slow, like thunder with a mind of its own. Engines. Three unmarked trucks crested the rise from the west, dust-choked and too clean to be local militias. Lights off. Windows dark. No flags. No plates.
Chava’s whisper came tight. “Those aren’t scavengers.”
“Nope,” Chandler said. “That’s a cleanup crew.”
The convoy circled the crates without stopping, precisely and too practiced. And on the side of the lead truck, just for a second when the dust cleared, they saw the crest: black and red, wolf over the blade.
CHASE RECOVERY CENTER – 1410 HOURS
The sun was high outside the bay window, but Shannon’s room was quiet. A breeze moved through the crack in the window, fluttering the edge of the medical folder sitting in her lap. She stared at it but didn’t open it.
The seal was already broken. Dante had done that earlier, but he hadn’t flipped a single page. He brought it to her and left it on her knees. He was letting her come to it on her own.
Shannon finally touched the first sheet. The paper rasped under her fingers.
SIM BRIEF—1104Z
FLT COND: WX-CLEAR / WIND VAR
LOAD: 2 SOULS / TRAINING MISSION
PILOT: ESTEN, M. / COPILOT: JOHNSON, S.
She skimmed the checklist annotations. Normal startup. Torque readings. Fuel logs. Nothing was odd until the signatures.
Daniel Krueger: Preflight Ground Clearance Officer
Her breath caught. He’d cleared them. Of course he had. She turned the page and read the logs from the diagnostic readout.
And there it was. An anomaly in the rotor trim feed. It was fractional, but logged fifteen minutes before launch. Flagged, then cleared manually by him. The entry was logged underD. KRUEGER / GND OPS AUTH MANUAL OVERRIDE.
She didn’t breathe for a long moment. Her hand hovered over the next page—crash diagnostics, debris analysis, medical response time.
Dante crossed the room to sit beside her. “You don’t have to read more.”
She just stared at that one line. The override. Her mouth moved quietly. “He knew she wouldn’t question it. Esten didn’t know what he was capable of.”
Dante reached over and gently slid the file from her lap, closing it without pressure.
She let him. Her hand stayed curled where it had held the folder. “I need to talk to her parents,” she whispered.
Dante nodded. “They called. They asked to come.”
The conference roomwasn’t clinical, more like a guest parlor. Comfortable chairs. Water glasses. A small vase of white hydrangeas on the table. Still, Shannon sat ramrod-straight, her hip braced, painkillers only partially working.
The door opened quietly, and Mr. and Mrs. Esten stepped inside. Mara’s mother wore navy and pearls. Her fingers trembled slightly as she held a small manila envelope. Her father wore a trim gray suit with flight wings pinned to the breast. His eyes were red.
Shannon slowly and painfully stood, extending a hand. Mrs. Esten ignored it and wrapped her in a hug. It wasn’t too tight, but it was sure and unshaking.
“I’m so sorry,” Shannon whispered, voice cracking.
“You came home,” her mother said softly. “You did what she would have wanted.”
