Page 203 of Aviatrix

But there were no remains. No trace of Quay’s father. We’d been fed false intel. Lied to. By who? That’s still above my pay grade. Maybe it always has been.

I’ve spent the last eight years trying to find Conrad. Failed mission after failed mission. Every lead ended in nothing. Every whisper turned into static.

The General believes he was murdered in cold blood, his body dumped somewhere no one will ever find it.

But I don’t believe that.

I think Conrad Quay is still alive.

I think he’s out there, running for his life. Trying to find a way back to his family in one piece.

No one wants to hear that theory. Not even the General.

My commanding officer stops in front of a blacked-out SUV, his face indecipherable, his tone clipped. “You are not to contact Captain Kinley Quay. You are not to go anywhere near Camp Obsidian. Your only job is to find out who the Legion is, what they want, and what their next move is. Is that understood, Major?”

I nod. “Understood, General.”

He hands me an encrypted satellite phone. Its only purpose? To contact him if and when I uncover something worth risking my cover. And what qualifies as worth it? That’s up to me.

No pressure.

The General drives off, leaving me to find my own way to some strange house, in some strange field, off some strange highway exit along the I-37.

I’d be lying if I said my nerves weren’t getting the best of me.

I’m most comfortable in the sky with clouds beside me, cities and roads stretched far below. Up there, I’m untouchable. Down here? I’ve got no advantage.

“You need a ride?” an airman says, stepping up beside me.

“Yeah,” I answer.

He tosses me a set of keys. “It’s parked around back.”

“Thanks,” I say, grabbing the duffel bag at my feet. Just the essentials. Nothing personal.

I round the corner and laugh.

A Ford Bronco. Red with a white top. Has to be late '70s. Boxy, loud, probably smells like engine grease and nostalgia.

I’m pretty sure Uncle Rod owned one of these back in the day.

I climb in and toss the bag onto the passenger seat. The Bronco roars to life when I turn the key in the ignition.

Classified missions have their perks. Adventure. Intrigue. And vintage rides.

I roll the window down, then roll out of the base.

The coordinates the General gave me are about forty minutes south. I hit the highway. Bumpy road, blue sky overhead.

I know I’m heading into the fire. What I don’t know is if I’ll survive it or burn it all down.

The stakes have never been this high for me. I’ve always wanted to find Conrad for Quay. But this? This is bigger. This is about destroying the people trying to use her. Hurt her.

I would do anything for her, and I have. I’ve crossed oceans and borders trying to bring her peace. Or answers. I haven’t done that yet. But maybe this will matter just as much. Maybe it’ll be even more monumental.

The city skyline fades into open fields as late May wildflowers scatter across the ground like flecks of color on canvas.

Five hundred miles north, Aunt Lise is sitting in the hospital while Uncle Rod gets his hip surgery. There was a last-minute opening, so they moved him up.