It doesn’t have bars or restraints, and I can live with the red blinking camera in the corner.
He turned just in time to see the door closing. “I’m not a criminal,” he called.
“You’re not cleared,” the MP replied before he shut the door completely and engaged the lock.
Asshole.
Ward stood in the silence for a long moment, letting the exhaustion settle over him. He didn’t sit down just yet because the shower was calling his name. He peeled out of the dirty, ash-stained field shirt they’d let him keep and ran a hand over his face. His fingers came away gray.
They were probably watching him already. Studying him, waiting to see if he’d do something suspicious like levitate the desk or recite incantations in Latin. He snorted and muttered to the camera, “I’m an archaeologist, not a Bond villain.”
The water bottle hissed when he cracked it open. He downed half of it in one go, then sat on the edge of the bed and rested his headin his hands. He’d known this would happen. They’d prepared for it, talked through every scenario. Viper had promised it wouldn’t be long. But knowing something and living it?
Two very different things.
The knock on the door came six hours later—precise, clinical, and impossible to ignore. Ward was sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring at the blank wall like it might eventually blink back. The door opened before he could answer, and two men stepped in—neither in uniform. Both wore suits. If the TV and the movies were anything to go by, those suits were government-issued and creased to perfection. The taller one had a folder in his hand. The other didn’t bother with props.
“Dr. Sutherland,” the tall one said. “We’re here to debrief you.”
Ward didn’t move. “You’ve been watching me for six hours. What more do you want?”
“Your version of what happened on the record.”
He sighed and stood, rolling out the tension in his neck. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“If you’re lying? Yes.” The shorter one cracked a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “If you’re not, then this will be over quickly.”
Ward shrugged and motioned toward the desk. “You gonna sit or do we do this like an old mob movie—with the lightbulb and the threats?”
Neither laughed, but they didn’t object when he sat, leaned back, and folded his arms. The taller one opened the folder and began by asking for a timeline—when he arrived on the island, where he stayed, what he was doing there. Ward answered clearly, sticking to the truth. He gave them the permit number,his institution’s letter of intent, the French approval stamp, everything he knew they’d already seen.
They asked about the SEALs—how he found them, how long he was with them, if he knew them before the eruption. Ward told them exactly what Viper had: he didn’t. They’d stumbled across him, half-dead, and dragged his sorry ass out of a dying mountain.
“And you expect us to believe you weren’t planted there?” one of them asked.
“I expect you to look at my resume, my career, my lack of a criminal record, and realize that I’m a nerd who got really, really unlucky.”
They stared at him for a long moment. Then the taller one closed the folder. “You’re cleared.”
Ward blinked. “That’s it?”
“You’re not under arrest. You’re not military. You don’t have clearance. So, yes. That’s it.”
The next thing he knew, he was being walked down a different corridor, handed a plain duffel bag with his belongings—phone, passport, and wallet—and escorted out into the early morning light. He blinked hard against it as his eyes took a little time to adjust to the real world again. A government sedan waited at the curb. The man who opened the door for him didn’t smile. “Atlanta. One-way. Commercial. You’re on the noon flight. Don’t miss it.”
Ward slid into the back seat, gripping the strap of the duffel like it might disappear. He didn’t bother to ask questions; nobody would answer them anyway, and if he asked the ones he wantedto ask, they’d know he’d lied and he’d never be allowed to leave. He stared out the window as the gates opened and the secure facility faded into the background.
He was free. But leaving felt nothing like escape. It felt like having half of his heart ripped out of his chest, because the one who owned it remained behind in the secure base he’d just been released from.
No one seemed interested in his story beyond confirming his name and giving him a pat-down that was more formality than suspicion. Just enough scrutiny to tick a box. A debrief that included one Navy liaison, one very polite Homeland Security rep, and a whole lot of vague head-nodding.
He told them the version he’d rehearsed in his head. Caught in the blast. Lost underground. Rescued by a black ops team while trying to survive. They hadn’t asked about Viper specifically. Maybe they didn’t know, or perhaps they just didn’t care. One of the officers gave him a pre-loaded phone, a new ID badge with his original name, and a one-way plane ticket home.
“Your records are clean, Dr. Sutherland,” the liaison had said, handing him the envelope. “You’re just a man who got unlucky. And then lucky again. Go home. Get some rest.”
Rest.
Right.
