The ambulance skidded into a stop, and the crew ran to meet him. Dante helped them lift her.
Shannon’s eyes flickered open for half a second. “You… came,” she whispered.
“I never left,” he said.
She gave the faintest smile before the medic slammed the door. The ambulance tore out into the night.
Dante stood there, fists clenched at his sides. Then he turned and walked back toward the ravine. Someone was going to answer for this. And it was going to start tonight.
But first he had to make the phone call he dreaded. He’d need to admit he failed.
PENTAGONSCIF
Martin Bailey pointed to convoy trails across Mali and Niger. “Six trucks missing. Gear’s bleeding into the Sahel. Some of it’s American. Some Russian. All of it ends up in proxy hands.”
Mike Johnson studied the digital topography.
Bailey continued, “Mr. Secretary, we need eyes on the ground. Africa’s becoming the board.”
The door cracked open, and a security aide stepped in. “Sir, apologies. Internal asset emergency from Chase Security for Mr. Johnson. A Mr. Cox is outside.”
Mike stood before the man finished.
Ford’s voice was low. “Shannon’s been hurt. Holland’s already in the air in the helo. We’re moving her off base as soon as she’s stable.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve got your go bag. Tate’s mobilizing the jet. It’s waiting on the tarmac.”
Mike nodded once.
TEN
EARLY MORNING – DAY 25
The rot didn’t hide well.
Dante crouched beside the ravine and turned over a crushed footprint in the mud. Cadet boots. One print deeper than the others. A drag mark behind it.
He snapped a photo, then two more. Rust scraped along the edge of the pipe, the bent chain link torn from a fence that was supposed to be locked.
The runoff stank. Oil. Mold. Blood?
He didn’t stop. He followed the path up the incline, past the half-flooded service tunnel where they’d found her jacket, back toward the gravel lot where a vehicle must’ve idled. No camera coverage, and no patrols logged.
Intentional.
Dante stared at the bare tire grooves on the edge of the embankment. Whoever helped Krueger or looked away knew what they were doing. But they weren’t fast enough. She was still breathing, and that changed everything.
Shannon convulsedin the medevac rig. The medic adjusted the oxygen mask and shouted vitals to the emergency medical tech.
Her BP was falling. Her skin temperature wouldn’t register on the medic’s portable scanner. Her eyes were closed. Mouth slack. Face ghost-white. Purple splotches bloomed across her fingers and lips.
“Thirty seconds out!” the driver called.
At the Academy infirmary, they were ready in posture only.
She was rushed in on a stretcher, soaked, bruised, and unresponsive. Nurses moved quickly but not urgently. An officer read off vitals without emotion.
One of the attending doctors muttered something about exposure. “Possible overreaction. She’s stable.”
“She’s freezing,” the medic snapped. “Her core temp is under 86. She’s postictal. Do you want to write the body bag report yourself?”
