Ninety seconds ticked past.
“Power down,” the comm said.
She did.
Ten seconds later, she stepped out, and her boots hit the concrete. Marston didn’t say a word. Instead, he turned away. But she saw the pause. It was a beat of recognition.
In the hallway, Rhodes matched pace beside her. “Nice run.”
“Thanks.”
They walked in silence.
“You breathe in there?”
“Only when I’m not flying.”
Rhodes snorted. “Fair enough.”
CHASE SECURITY TRAINING CENTER – DC
The air in the kill house was stale and dry, like it had soaked up every echo of gunpowder and sweat for a decade and decided to keep them. Dante adjusted his comm earpiece and rolled his shoulders once beneath the tight plate carrier. His shirt clung to his spine. The day’s third sim was about to start, and the last one had already left a stripe of bruises across his ribs.
Across from him, Bravo Team was gearing up. There were no jokes, no chatter, only the practiced rhythm of men who had been doing this together long enough to predict each other’s moves. Except for him. Dante was still the variable. And they weren’t trying to hide it.
“Stack up,” barked the team lead, voice flat through the comms. “Dante, you’re with Callow.”
A few heads turned.
Callow was rangy, lean, fast. Younger than the others, maybe thirty, but with that tight, forward posture of a guy who didn’t trust anyone to have his six. Not unless they’d earned it. And Dante hadn’t.
Callow didn’t say anything, just jerked his head to the second door. The signal was clear:keep up, don’t talk.
The flash charge was prepped. The command came:Go.
The door burst inward, and Callow entered like a coiled spring. He was too fast. Dante swept the opposite angle, but the timing was off. Callow was halfway across the room before Dante cleared his sector. A pop sim round fired from the corner, fake but loud, and Dante adjusted on instinct. Sweep. Two shots. Clean. But it was close.
They cleared the final corner together, shoulders nearly colliding. Callow’s body language was all silent scorn. No words, just the kind of heat that lingers after someone blames you for their own mistake.
“Room clear,” Dante said, clipped.
The rest of the team moved on. No one spoke. The silence was worse than a dressing down.
The locker room stank of gun oil, salt, and stress like fuel burning through the last dregs of patience. Dante stripped off his sweat-drenched tac shirt. His shoulders ached from the weight of his vest. Across the aisle, Callow dumped his gloves into his bag with a little too much force.
Dante didn’t look at him.
Callow looked anyway. “You don’t belong in that stack.”
Dante’s voice came low. “You ran early.”
“I run fast. We’re not here to babysit.”
Dante met his eyes. “I’m not here to be babysat.”
Callow didn’t break the stare. “Then stay out of my space.” As Paulsen entered, Callow grabbed his towel, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out.
Paulsen lingered a moment, looking at Dante. “Be here at 0600. Full kit.” Then he left.
