Mike stood justinside the doorway for a full ten seconds before speaking.
She looked up slowly, exhausted and wrecked. “Hey, Dad.”
He crossed the room and took the chair from Dante without a word. Dante left them alone.
Mike didn’t reach for her hand. “I never should’ve let you walk into that flight line knowing he was on this base.”
“You didn’t know he’d do that.”
“I suspected he would do something, and that’s worse.”
She was quiet a long time. “He hurt me. He killed Mara.”
“I know.”
Her voice wavered. “I thought I was over it.”
“You were,” Mike said. “Until he tried to make you relive it.”
She blinked fast.
“You landed the bird,” he added quietly. “You saved lives getting it out of population.”
“I lost one.”
“She would’ve died no matter who was in the other seat, and likely a lesser pilot would have died too. You’re the reason shehad a chance.” Mike leaned forward. “You’re not done, baby girl. Don’t let him take more than he already has.”
WEST HANGAR – 1855 HOURS
The interior lights were off when Bravo Team entered.
Trey Callen flicked on a tactical flashlight. The beam swept over the polished floor, sealed lockers, a row of bird components waiting for inspection. Bravo’s senior executive officer, Adina Ganz, stood beside him. Three more members of the team joined them.
“Pull diagnostics,” she said. “We need to find all the handwritten notes. The network notes were deleted.”
They moved fast. One went to the checklist log. Another started pulling wire harness records. A third hit the inspection point logs.
Ten minutes later, someone called out, “Got them.”
The team gathered at the far bench. They found a small trash can. Inside was a baggie, and inside it was a small bottle coated in chemical residue.
“The airman due to dump the trash won’t get a demerit today for missing the can.” Adina smiled.
Callen looked at it. “It’s sabotage.”
No one argued. Because it wasn’t just evidence anymore. It was intent.
“Now we need to connect this vial to the flight.”
ICU ROOM 4
The pain came in waves. Big, black, rolling ones that didn’t crest; they just kept breaking.
Shannon thrashed under it—not violently because she was too weak, but enough. Her hand jerked once at the IV line. Her body arched against the restraints on instinct.
And neither the morphine, fentanyl nor the Dilaudid helped.
Hunt Montgomery stood at the foot of the bed, scrub cap shoved back, gloves streaked from a dozen interventions. Lucas Hale monitored O2 levels. The nurse by the IV cart looked seconds from crying.
