Mercer typed a password into the door release panel. The console chirped, and the cell door clicked.
Krueger’s pulse remained steady.
Reeve stepped forward. “Keep your distance, Doc. He’s?—”
Krueger struck before the sentence ended. He lunged forward, yanking the chain between his wrists with brutal force. It snapped from the poorly welded ring in the floor. The momentum carried him into Mercer, slamming the man into the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him. The tablet clattered to the ground.
Kallen grabbed for his sidearm. Krueger used Mercer’s body as a shield. A single precise move. Mercer’s badge dangled from Krueger’s hand.
“Don’t,” Krueger warned.
Reeve raised his rifle.
Krueger drove Mercer’s head into the wall. Once. Twice. The body went limp.
Reeve froze in horror. That microsecond was all Krueger needed. He closed the distance in three steps, grabbed the barrel of the rifle, and slammed the butt into the sergeant’s temple. Reeve dropped.
Kallen drew. Krueger flung the rifle at him, crossing the distance like a predator. Kallen fired wildly, his shot sparking off the wall inches from Krueger’s head.
Then the struggle hit the floor. Kallen was strong. Trained. But he wasn’t fighting a man. He was fighting hate. Krueger wrenched the pistol from his grasp and leveled it at the major’s forehead.
“Please don’t…” Kallen gasped.
Krueger smiled. “Say hello to Mara for me.”
He pulled the trigger. The echo rang through the small facility, swallowing the last trace of discipline or control.
Silence fell as Krueger pulled himself upright and wiped blood from his cheek. Alarms hadn’t gone off. Security hadn’t swarmed—because Mercer accidentally disabled them when he opened the administrative override to begin processing the usual idiots.
Krueger wasn’t an idiot.
His steps were slow as he walked to the terminal. He scanned Mercer’s badge. The outer doors pinged, one after another.
The desert night spilled cool air into the entry hall as he stepped outside. A battered Toyota Hilux rolled into view, its bed rigged with a pintle mount holding a Browning M2 .50 cal. The heavy machine gun sat high, its long barrel with a cracked belt of linked rounds feeding from an improvised ammo box bolted to the side. The vehicle idled near the perimeter wall, headlights dimmed. Local militia colors. Not U.S.
A man stepped out from the driver’s side, raising one hand in greeting. “Mr. Krueger, the Sahel welcomes you.”
Krueger exhaled—a long, pleased sound. “Take me to your employer.”
The man nodded and opened the passenger door. Krueger slid inside.
As the truck pulled away into the black sand, the facility behind him fell into silence with three bodies cooling under flickering lights. He didn’t look back. Krueger never did.
THIRTY-EIGHT
CHASE MEDICAL – FLIGHT REHAB WING – 1419 HOURS
Shannon finished her cooldown set, hands braced on her knees, sweat cooling at the base of her neck when Hunt walked into the training bay. He never came in here during PT, not unless something big was coming. He carried a thin envelope in one hand. Official. Military. Her name was typed in the upper corner.
Her stomach dipped. “Hunt?” She stood slowly, wiping her palms on her joggers.
He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look worried either. Just… resigned. “You recovered faster than most people expected. Better than some thought possible.”
“That a compliment?”
“A reality check,” he said. “You’re fit to fly. Fit to serve.”
She went still.
