O’Reilly looked at Shannon. “I assume he’s stubborn?”
“Pathologically,” she confirmed.
O’Reilly almost smiled. “Perfect. That’ll come in handy when rehab starts.”
The door opened with a soft tone. A woman in her forties entered—tall, mixed heritage, wearing a navy blouse and scarf knotted loosely, no lab coat. Dr. Eliza Shen, clinical psychiatrist and military trauma specialist, moved toward Dante with the calm, circular energy of someone who never pushed or missed a step.
“Mr. Olivetti,” she said gently. “I’m not here to dig. Not yet. I’m just going to sit with you for a while today. Ask some questions. You answer only what you want. That’s it.”
Dante blinked slowly. “Do I get to ask any?”
Eliza smiled. “As many as you like.” She took the corner chair. Didn’t open a tablet.
“When are you going to make me talk?”
She smiled. “There’s no making you do anything. You talk when you want to and say what you feel like. We can do it together, or you can have someone join us as long as they’re willing.”
Minutes later, two men stepped in together—one short and stocky with soft eyes, the other lean and ex-military in posture but not demeanor. Nick Vargas introduced himself as his lead physiotherapist, former combat medic. Rafi Salim was his neuromuscular reconditioning and pain specialist.
Nick spoke first. “We’re not touching you today. I just want to watch you sit up.”
Dante gave him a look. “That’s it?”
“That’s enough,” Rafi said. “You sit. We’ll watch. You lie, we’ll know.” It was said kindly.
Dante pushed himself upright with a quiet grunt, slow and careful. He reached halfway.
Nick nodded. “Good. That’s it for today.”
“No metrics?”
“You’re not a lab rat,” Rafi said. “You’re a man with broken systems. We build back what matters. We go slow so you don’t fail fast.”
Dante leaned back, breath shallow. Shannon exhaled too.
After the staff left, Shannon returned to her chair beside the bed. The room was warm.
Dante opened one eye toward her. “This place makes me feel like dying would’ve been more efficient.”
Shannon reached out and gently brushed the hair from his forehead. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“Maybe,” she conceded, “in a week.”
WASHINGTON DC – CHASE SECURITY SUBLEVEL 3
The office was cold. Not just temperature—it was empty. Ford Cox stared at three separate monitors, each feeding into a different node in ChaseNet’s off-record archives. His tie was gone and collar open. His sleeves were rolled up. A forgotten ID badge from Ramstein was still clipped to his waist. He hadn’t shaved in days.
He was neck-deep in it now—tracking Daniel Krueger’s path, not by travel logs or military orders, but by the waymoney moved, authorizations buried themselves, and digital fingerprints showed up where they didn’t belong.
He keyed backwards through the Air Force Academy admission and expulsion records—sealed, of course. Buried under imperial language and behavioral redactions. But someone inside had tagged the file years ago with an unusual notation: “Flagged for independent reassignment, not prosecution.”
Ford leaned in.That’s how the bastard was sent to the Army.And there was more. In the Army, there were three more cover-ups.
The final hit came, causing Ford to curse. Krueger raped an officer.
He wasn’t prosecuted after sabotaging the U.S. Air Force helicopter? After Mara Esten was confirmed dead? After nearly killing Lieutenant Shannon Johnson?
