Chapter 6 - The Extraction That Wasn’t Mine
Colonel Cole did not reach for his weapon.
That saved his life.
Three soldiers looked between us.
“Major,” he said calmly, “I can explain.”
“Start.”
He asked everyone else to leave.
“No.”
Apparently nobody had learned.
“Explain here.”
Cole had known Marcus for nine years.
They worked multiple classified assignments together.
And yes, he knew Aaron.
But Marcus’s warning was incomplete.
“You shouldn't trust me with what?”
“I don't know.”
Convenient.
Then I checked my encrypted orders.
Something I should have done immediately.
Authentication valid.
Authorization valid.
Extraction valid.
Destination—
I stopped.
The secure residence outside Washington was not listed.
Cole had told me that verbally.
The actual destination was Fort Belvoir for classified debriefing.
“Why did you change my destination?”
His jaw tightened.
No answer.
Soldiers shifted.
One quietly stepped away from him.
Cole finally said:
“Because Belvoir was compromised.”
“By whom?”
“Your brother.”
Everything came back to Aaron.
Too neatly.
Then the burner phone inside Marcus’s case rang.
Nobody moved.
It should have been dead.
It had no visible network registration.
Still, it rang.
I answered.
A man spoke.
“Elena.”
My knees nearly gave out.
Not because I recognized the voice.
Because he sounded like my father.
Younger.
“Who is this?”
“You know.”
“Aaron.”
Silence.
Then:
“Do not get into Cole’s vehicle.”
Cole shouted:
“Hang up.”
Wrong move.
Every soldier noticed.
Aaron laughed.
“He still gives orders when he’s scared.”
“What do you want?”
“To finish what Marcus started.”
“You killed my husband?”
My voice cracked for the first time.
Aaron became quiet.
“No.”
“Did Meridian?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“He isn't dead.”
The garage disappeared around me.
“What?”
“Marcus survived the operation.”
I grabbed the table.
My mother screamed softly.
My father whispered:
“Oh, God.”
Aaron continued:
“The body at that funeral wasn't your husband.”
Colonel Cole moved toward me.
Two soldiers blocked him.
I stared at the flag folded inside the living room.
Yesterday, I had pressed my lips to a coffin.
I had whispered goodbye.
I had told our unborn daughter about her father.
“No.”
“Elena, listen to me.”
“You're lying.”
“I wish I were.”
“Where is Marcus?”
“That's why everyone wants the drive.”
Then Aaron said the sentence that changed the entire shape of my grief.
May you like
“Marcus didn't fail his mission.”
“He defected.”
