CHAPTER 1 — The Grip of Diplomacy

Captain Maya Reeves adjusted the cuffs of her dress blues, smoothing the dark fabric with movements as precise as a surgeon’s. The polished brass along her chest caught the amber glow of the embassy chandeliers, reflecting ribbons that had been earned under fire, dust, and blood. At thirty-two, she bore the quiet confidence of someone who had seen the worst and survived it—three combat tours, two hostage rescues, one mission so classified it didn’t officially exist.

But tonight, the battlefield was made of crystal, silk gowns, and diplomatic smiles.

This was not the comfort of a forward operating base nor the rigid clarity of a chain of command. This was an embassy ballroom turned peace forum, where one wrong stare could fracture alliances more fragile than glass. She inhaled slowly, letting the music and chatter sink into the edges of her awareness.

“Captain, the delegates from the Eastern Territories have arrived,” murmured Lieutenant James Harlo, her aide. His voice was low, even, but tight with urgency. “Colonel Collins wants you at the main entrance.”

Maya nodded once, eyes scanning the ornate room before she moved. “Any issues so far?”

“Not yet. But security’s nervous.”

“Security is always nervous,” Maya replied, though she felt the same coil in her gut.

As she crossed the floor, the presence of 150 Marines filled her periphery—towering men and women in immaculate dress blues, positioned like elegant statues. They were not here as warriors tonight, but as guardians of peace. Visible but controlled. Ready but silent. Their discipline brought reassurance to the nervous dignitaries milling among them.

Colonel Eileen Collins stood at the main doors, posture perfect, expression composed enough to be carved from marble. She greeted local leaders with a diplomat’s warmth—but Maya knew she could drop a man twice her size in three seconds.

Behind her, Lieutenant General Arthur Curry watched the proceedings with a patient expression that came only from witnessing too many peace deals die before signatures could dry.

“Captain Reeves,” Curry said without looking at her, “you’ve studied these factions extensively. I want you to personally escort Minister Nazari.”

“Understood, sir.”
Her voice sounded calm. Inside, wires tightened.

Nazari represented a faction that controlled half the disputed borderlands. If tonight failed, an entire region could collapse back into violence.

As she moved toward the receiving line, Maya’s attention snagged on a man standing near the far security post. Broad shoulders. Clean-cut hair. Wearing the right uniform—but wrong energy. Military personnel scanned like waves: up, sweep, done. This man scanned like a predator: eyes flickering, measuring, mapping.

Too deliberate. Too tense. Too wrong.

She tucked that observation into the corner of her mind.

Before she could approach Nazari, a familiar voice called out.

“Captain Reeves.”
Dr. Ana May Hayes—Colonel, Senior Medical Officer, and the sharpest mind in the entire embassy medical corps—stepped through the crowd. Her tone was low but urgent. “A word?”

“Of course.”

Hayes didn’t mince words. “We’ve received intelligence that someone may attempt to disrupt tonight’s negotiations. Nothing concrete. But something’s off.”

“It always is,” Maya murmured. “But I’ll stay alert.”

As Hayes walked away, Maya looked back at the unfamiliar security officer—and froze.

He was gone.

The ballroom suddenly felt narrower. More crowded. Louder.

Minister Nazari entered surrounded by aides and a translator. Maya positioned herself nearby, her presence meant to reassure. The minister offered a polite nod before resuming a soft conversation with a State Department official.

Curry approached again, checking the room over her shoulder. “How’s our guest?”

“Receptive. Engaged,” Maya replied. “But security concerns remain.”

Curry’s eyes narrowed. “Keep me updated.”

But Maya didn’t answer.

Because just beyond the minister’s shoulder—

there he was again.

The mysterious officer threaded through the crowd, fast but smooth, as though following a path only he could see.

Maya’s pulse sharpened. She moved, weaving among ambassadors and diplomatic spouses, maintaining composure while accelerating her pace.

Fifteen feet away, the man’s jacket shifted.

A sudden glint of metal flashed beneath the fabric—not a gun. Not a blade. Something strapped around the wrist. Something tactical. Something meant to control, not kill.

The translator stepped aside, and the man made his move.

Maya cut in fast.

“Minister,” she called out brightly, as though simply approaching for protocol. “A moment of your time.”

The stranger’s gaze snapped up and locked onto hers.

Cold. Calculating.
He smiled—but the smile died before reaching his eyes.

“Captain Reeves,” he said softly.

He knew her name.

That alone thickened the air around them.

He stepped forward, extending a hand with diplomatic politeness. She accepted the handshake—because refusing it would create a scene—but her muscles locked.

His grip tightened unnaturally.

Then his other hand lifted.

Not in greeting.

Toward her face.

Fingers clamped along her cheekbone, jawline, pressure points—an expert’s hold, meant to control posture, breathing, movement. He leaned in, whispering to her ear.

“Smile and walk,” he breathed, “or I detonate the device in the kitchen.”

A chill ran along her spine—but something didn’t add up. His stance was wrong for someone holding real explosives. His tone lacked the desperation of a suicide operative. His control was too polished, too measured.

He wasn’t a bomber.

He was a handler. A kidnapper. An extraction operative.

And she was the target.

He guided her backward, steps small to avoid drawing attention. Around them, the room carried on—music, chatter, the clink of champagne glasses.

Three steps.

Four.

General Curry’s hand drifted subtly toward his sidearm.

Maya made a minuscule shake of her head.

Not yet.

The man’s voice slithered into her ear again.
“The intelligence you gathered in Kandahar… my employers want to discuss it privately.”

Her blood chilled.

Kandahar was classified to a level known only to a dozen officers. If he knew about it—

There was a leak.

Three more feet to the service door.

His fingers dug harder into her face, angling her head to restrict her vision and movement. Pain rippled along her jaw. He was forcing compliance, preparing to maneuver her into a chokehold or restraint.

Maya exhaled.

Once.

Calm. Controlled.

She let her heel wobble—just slightly.

She feigned a stumble.

His grip adjusted instinctively.

Exactly what she needed.

And in that microscopic opening, she struck.

Her left hand snapped up, breaking his hold with a forceful upward wedge. Her right hand twisted sharply across his wrist, applying torque at a brutal angle—

CRACK.

The sound punched through the ballroom like a gunshot.

Gasps erupted.

The man buckled, dropping to one knee, clutching his shattered wrist.

The entire room froze.

One second.

Two.

And then—

150 Marines reacted at once.

CHAPTER 2 — The Man With the Broken Wrist

For a moment, the entire world went still.

The string quartet stopped mid-note.
Crystal glasses froze halfway to lips.
Diplomats stared, wide-eyed, at the tableau unfolding beneath the chandeliers.

Then—

“MARINES, MOVE!”
Colonel Collins’s voice cut through the shock like a blade.

The room erupted into motion.

Within seconds, two Marines seized the assailant’s shoulders, slamming him face-first onto the polished marble floor. Another pinned his legs. His injured wrist splayed at an unnatural angle, already swelling, skin flushed deep red.

“Everyone back! NOW!” Lieutenant Harlo shouted, guiding civilians behind a barricade of Marines.

Minister Nazari was whisked away by a protective wall of bodies. Lieutenant General Curry stepped forward, expression granite-hard as he assessed the scene. Secret Service agents appeared almost instantly, their movements sharp and coordinated.

Through it all, Captain Maya Reeves stood frozen—not in shock, but in controlled restraint. Her heart thrummed with leftover adrenaline, yet her mind was already processing angles, methods, motives. This man had known her. Known Kandahar. Known information that shouldn’t exist outside classified briefings.

He had spoken as if he expected her to comply.

He had underestimated her.

The assailant groaned against the floor as Colonel Collins crouched beside him.

“You picked the wrong ballroom,” she said coldly. “Name.”

He didn’t answer. Sweat beaded along his temple, but his eyes flicked toward Maya with something between hatred and admiration.

“You broke my wrist,” he hissed.

“You touched my face,” Maya replied evenly. “Seems fair.”

General Curry approached. “Captain Reeves. Walk me through it.”

Maya straightened, ignoring the throbbing ache along her jaw where the man had grabbed her.

“He attempted to isolate Minister Nazari—but that was misdirection,” she said. “He came for me. Claimed there was an explosive device in the kitchen, but his body language suggested otherwise. He was trying to coerce me into leaving the ballroom.”

Curry frowned deeply. “Meaning?”

“He’s an extraction operative,” Maya said. “Highly trained. His grip, his steps, everything he did was about control, not detonation.”

Curry’s jaw muscles tightened. “He mentioned Kandahar?”

Maya hesitated—just a second—but Curry noticed.
She nodded.

“Yes, sir. He referenced the intelligence I gathered there.”

Silence rippled outward like a cold wave.

That mission had been buried. There were fewer than fifteen people alive who knew the full details. If one of them had leaked—

The implications were catastrophic.

Before Curry could speak again, the assailant began laughing.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t manic. It was quiet. Controlled. Almost amused.

“I should have been warned you were this fast,” he murmured, voice vibrating against the marble. “They said you were smart. They didn’t say you were dangerous.”

Maya stepped toward him, eyes narrowing. “Who sent you?”

He laughed harder. “You think I’m here because of Kandahar? Captain… you’re involved in something much bigger.”

Colonel Collins grabbed his collar. “If you don’t start talking—”

“I’m already dead,” he said simply. “Whether I speak or not.”

That stopped everyone.

Curry exchanged a look with Collins. Hayes appeared from the crowd, medical bag in hand, and knelt beside the suspect.

“I need to check his injuries,” she said. She touched his shoulder. “Sir, stay still—”

The man’s body jerked violently.

Then stilled.

Hayes froze.

Her eyes widened.

“Maya,” she whispered urgently, “step back.”

Maya instantly recognized the look on the doctor’s face.

“No,” she breathed. “Not—”

“Cyanide,” Hayes confirmed. “Encapsulated in a molar or gum insert. He bit down.”

General Curry cursed under his breath.

The man coughed once, blood mixing with foam at the corner of his mouth. He tilted his head just enough to see Maya’s face.

“I told you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Already dead.”

“Who sent you?” Maya pressed, voice sharp.

His eyes glinted with something unreadable—triumph, maybe. Or regret.

“You’re too late,” he rasped.
“Your file… has already been sold.”

Then his breath caught.

And stopped.

A cold heaviness fell over the room.

Ten minutes later, the ballroom had turned into a coordinated swirl of investigators, bomb-sniffing dogs, scanning equipment, and Marines securing every doorway.

No bomb was found.

No device of any kind.

Just as Maya had predicted.

Colonel Collins gestured her into a side room—a small private conference chamber filled with emergency lighting and hastily set-up communication screens. General Curry paced along the far wall, speaking into a secure phone line.

Collins shut the door behind them.

“Sit,” she ordered.

“I’m fine,” Maya replied.

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Maya sat. Her muscles trembled with fading adrenaline, but her mind was sharper than ever.

Collins placed a file on the table.

“We’re in a crisis. That man didn’t come for the minister. He didn’t come for the negotiations. He came for you. And if someone wants to abduct a US intelligence officer during a high-level peace summit, they’re not doing it for ransom.”

Maya swallowed. “They want what I know.”

Collins nodded grimly.

“General Curry wants you on lockdown until we get an internal investigation underway. Kandahar intel was sealed. If it’s out… someone inside our chain has been compromised.”

Maya leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling as though answers might be hidden between the tiles.

A leak inside the intelligence community.

A mercenary trained to abduct field officers.

A reference to her classified mission.

Someone had gone to extraordinary lengths to capture her alive.

And they had almost succeeded.

Her heart hammered, not with fear—but with anger.

“They won’t stop,” Maya said quietly.

“No,” Collins agreed. “They won’t.”

A knock sounded. Hayes stepped in, face tight. “Captain—not good news.”

Maya sat forward. “What now?”

“The autopsy kit we brought for rapid tox screening picked something up. The cyanide capsule wasn’t the only thing in his mouth.”

Curry ended his call and looked over.

“What else?” he asked.

Hayes held out a sealed evidence bag.

Inside it, wrapped in thin plastic—

Was a microchip.

“Found lodged behind his back molar,” Hayes said. “Like it was implanted.”

Maya stared.

“What’s on it?” Curry asked.

Hayes shook her head. “We haven’t decrypted it yet.”

Maya felt a chill crawl down her spine.
Because on the microchip, etched in tiny serial markings, was a code she recognized instantly.

A code she should never have seen again.

A code directly tied to the Kandahar operation.

“Oh God…” she whispered.
“It’s starting again.”

CHAPTER 3 — The Kandahar Ghost

The microchip seemed to pulse in the dim conference room light, as if it carried a heartbeat.

Maya stared at it, every muscle in her body tightening with recognition—recognition she wished she didn’t have.

Lieutenant General Curry folded his arms. “Captain Reeves. That look on your face tells me you know exactly what this code means.”

Maya inhaled slowly. “Sir… this marking—KX-41—was only used on intelligence gathered during Operation FALCON VEIL.”

Hayes blinked. “That’s…the file that was sealed under presidential order.”

Curry’s gaze sharpened. “Only six field operatives and three senior officers were read in. You were one of them.”

“And now,” Maya said quietly, “someone wants it back.”

Colonel Collins leaned over her shoulder, eyes narrowing at the microchip. “We need to decrypt this. Fast.”

“We can’t do it here,” Maya said. “Whatever’s inside is locked behind multi-layer encryption. We’ll need a Tier-One cyber facility.”

Curry nodded once. “I’ll arrange transport to the base. We leave in five.”

He turned to go, but Maya’s voice stopped him.

“Sir… the leak. If Falcon Veil intel has resurfaced, the mole might already know this chip was recovered.”

Curry stiffened. “That’s why the chain of handling stays between us only.” He looked from Collins to Hayes. “No outside communication. No unsecured channels. Until we know who’s compromised, trust no one.”

Hayes swallowed hard. “Understood.”

As Curry left to coordinate extraction, Collins faced Maya fully.

“What exactly did you find in Kandahar, Captain?”

Maya opened her mouth—then closed it.

Some truths weren’t easily spoken.

“Classified, Colonel,” she said carefully. “I’ll tell you once we’re in a secure environment.”

Collins studied her with the sharp intuition of a seasoned officer.

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

Minutes later, Maya walked through the service hallway toward the motorcade waiting outside. The hallway buzzed with nervous personnel and tightened security, but she felt something else slithering beneath the noise—unease that coiled through her ribcage.

Lieutenant Harlo jogged to her side.

“Captain—are you alright? You took a hit earlier. Should I call medical?”

“I’m fine,” Maya said. “Status on Minister Nazari?”

“He’s secure. Angry, but secure. Keeps asking if the United States planned the attack.”

Maya snorted softly. “Diplomats always assume everything is a plot.”

Harlo lowered his voice. “Was it? I mean… someone moved inside the embassy, impersonated security staff, nearly abducted an intelligence officer—this doesn’t feel like a one-man op.”

Maya stopped walking.

“Harlo… listen to me carefully. You don’t repeat this to anyone. Not even the Marines.”

He straightened. “Yes, ma’am.”

“The man wasn’t working alone. And what he wanted… wasn’t political leverage.”

Harlo frowned. “Then what—”

Before she could answer, a voice called from behind.

“Captain Reeves!”

Hayes hurried toward them, face pale.

“Maya—I need to check your jaw again. You’re bleeding.”

Maya touched her cheek, surprised to feel a warm trickle. Adrenaline had masked the pain earlier. But Hayes’s voice held something else—urgency. Warning.

The doctor leaned in subtly.

“Don’t react,” she whispered.

Maya’s pulse jumped.

“Behind you,” Hayes murmured. “Three individuals—not Marines. No rank patches. They’ve shadowed you since the conference room. I think we’re being watched.”

Maya resisted the urge to turn.

“What do you suggest?” she whispered back.

“Don’t head to the motorcade,” Hayes said. “They’re waiting for that. We reroute. Emergency stairs to sub-level garage.”

Harlo nodded quickly. “I’ll take point.”

Maya’s mind sharpened instantly.

“Move naturally,” she said. “If they follow, we confirm intent.”

They walked casually toward the restroom corridor. Behind them, soft footfalls shifted. Matching pace.

Hayes’s eyes flicked sideways, confirming.

“Three,” she mouthed. “All armed.”

Maya’s muscles coiled.

Not good.

They reached the emergency stairwell. Harlo cracked the door open just an inch.

Clear.

“Go,” Maya ordered.

Hayes slipped inside first. Harlo followed, then Maya. She shut the door silently behind her.

For two steps, everything was calm.

Then—

BANG.

The door slammed open.

The three men shoved inside, weapons drawn.

“GO!” Maya screamed, pushing Hayes down the stairs.

Gunfire erupted, deafening in the enclosed stairwell. Bullets ricocheted off concrete, sparks snapping in the dim light.

Harlo fired back, hitting one attacker in the shoulder. The man spun, roaring in pain but not falling.

Maya grabbed the railing, swinging herself downward three steps at a time. Hayes stumbled but kept going, clutching her medical kit.

Above them, boots thundered.

“They’re coming!” Hayes cried.

Maya skidded to the next landing.

“Harlo—MOVE!”

But Harlo stayed at the doorway, firing controlled shots to delay their pursuers. One man fell, but the other two advanced with astonishing precision.

“Harlo, fall back NOW!” Maya yelled.

“I’ve got you covered!” he shouted.

A burst of automatic fire chewed through the wall.

Harlo jerked—hit.

“No!” Maya lunged upward, but Hayes yanked her back.

“He’s gone, Maya! MOVE!”

Maya’s heart ripped violently in her chest—but Harlo, bleeding heavily, managed one last act. He fired blindly, hitting the fire alarm panel.

A siren shrieked through the stairwell.

Sprinklers exploded with high-pressure water.

The attackers cursed as visibility dropped. Maya used the chaos to grab Hayes and charge downward, racing for the sub-level exit.

Their boots pounded on wet metal steps. Behind them, the men gave chase but lost ground, slipping on the soaked landing.

“Maya!” Hayes gasped. “Exit door!”

They burst onto Sub-Level 2—a dim concrete garage with rows of black embassy vehicles.

The moment they stepped inside, an engine roared.

Headlights flared.

A black SUV accelerated straight toward them.

Maya shoved Hayes aside.

“TUCK AND ROLL!”

They dove behind a pillar as the SUV skidded past, tires screeching.

Maya rolled to one knee, gun drawn.

The SUV swung around for another pass.

“Take cover! MOVE!” she shouted.

Hayes scrambled behind a sedan. Maya sprinted for a nearby tactical cart.

The SUV charged again.

Maya slid across the concrete, firing twice at the windshield.

Cracks spiderwebbed across the glass—but the vehicle didn’t stop.

“Who ARE these people?!” Hayes screamed.

The SUV smashed into the pillar Maya had just vacated.

Smoke hissed from the hood.

The driver staggered out, staggering but armed.

Maya charged.

They collided hard, grappling. He swung a heavy punch—she ducked, driving her knee into his ribs. The man grunted, but he was strong—military-strong. He slammed her against the hood, reaching for her weapon.

“Maya!” Hayes tried to rush out—but another attacker limped from the stairwell, gun raised.

“No—NO!”

Maya twisted violently, elbowing the driver across his throat. He stumbled. She seized his wrist, pivoted her hips—

CRACK.

Another broken wrist.

The attacker dropped.

She grabbed his gun just as the limping man fired.

She dove behind the SUV. Bullets hammered the metal.

Hayes screamed from somewhere behind the vehicles.

Maya rose, sighted—

BANG.

Her shot hit clean, sending the limping man crashing to the floor.

Silence.

Just dripping sprinklers, exhaust smoke, and Maya’s ragged breathing.

She scanned the garage.

“All clear,” she rasped. “Hayes—status?!”

Hayes crawled from behind a sedan, shaking violently. “I’m—Maya, Harlo—”

“I know,” Maya whispered. “We’ll bring him home.”

But her eyes hardened.

Someone had sent a team to abduct her.

A team willing to crash a car into a US embassy sub-level.

A team that moved like professionals.

And if this was the backup…

The real operation was far from over.

As sirens approached, Maya finally voiced the truth burning in her chest:

“This is a war,” she whispered. “And it started before tonight.”

CHAPTER 4 — THE ROOM WHERE TRUTHS BURN

The world snapped back into motion the instant the mercenary’s wrist broke. The crack echoed through the ballroom like a gunshot. Gasps rippled across the crowd. Marines surged forward in disciplined formation, creating a wall between the diplomats and the chaos.

The mercenary crumpled to one knee, jaw clenched in pain, but even then his eyes were cold, calculating—this wasn’t over for him.

“Hands where I can see them!” Lieutenant James Harlo barked, weapon drawn.

Maya kept her stance sharp, her breath steady. “Stand down,” she ordered, voice commanding. “He said there’s a device in the kitchen.”

Instantly Colonel Collins pivoted. “EOD team—now!”

Marines swept into motion, calm and lethal, funneling diplomats out of harm’s way. The chandeliers trembled slightly from the sudden flow of boots and bodies.

The mercenary spat onto the polished floor, smirking. “You think you’re quick, Captain Reeves,” he hissed. “But you don’t understand the game you’re in.”

Maya crouched beside him, twisting his restrained wrist just enough to silence the arrogance. “Then explain it,” she said softly. “Because right now, you’re running out of bones I’m willing to leave intact.”

He chuckled—low, humorless. “Do you really think I’m afraid to die? I was paid to deliver you. Alive if possible. Dead if necessary.”

“By whom?” Maya pressed.

But instead of answering, he offered a thin, cruel smile. “You already know.”

A chill rolled up her spine. Kandahar. The leak. Someone high-ranking. Someone with access.

Curry approached, face grim. “Bomb squad found the ‘device,’” he reported. “Pressure cooker—empty. It was a bluff.”

Maya nodded slowly. “Because I was the target.”

Curry’s jaw tightened. “We need answers. Now.” He gestured for the Marines to haul the mercenary to his feet. “Interrogation room. Captain Reeves, you’re with me.”

As they moved, diplomats whispered. Marines exchanged worried glances. The entire embassy felt as if it were holding its breath. Inside the small steel-walled room, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead.

They strapped the mercenary to a bolted chair—secure, immobile. His broken wrist throbbed visibly, but his eyes still burned with defiance.

Colonel Collins folded her arms. “Name.”

Silence.

“Affiliation.”

Silence.

Maya stepped forward, leaning just close enough that he could see the fire behind her eyes. “You said your employers want Kandahar files,” she said. “Why? What do they think I know?”

His lip twitched. A tell.

“You pieced together the smuggling corridor,” he murmured finally. “The route that funded half a dozen shadow networks. You think shutting down the Kandahar exchange killed it? Captain…” He shook his head softly. “You barely clipped a wing.”

Maya froze. Her pulse hammered.

“You’re lying,” she said, though part of her already knew he wasn’t.

He leaned back, even with pain cutting through him. “There are people who make wars happen. People who profit when nations bleed. You tripped over something you weren’t supposed to see—something powerful people will do anything to protect.”

Curry’s voice was steel. “Names. Now.”

“Kill me,” the mercenary whispered. “Or let me go. But I’m not giving you anything.”

Maya studied him. The calm. The loyalty. Or was it fear?

“Who are you afraid of?” she asked.

That finally broke his composure—just a crack. His pupils widened, breath hitched. A man terrified of a ghost.

He swallowed. “You don’t walk away from them.”

“Watch me,” Maya replied.

The door slammed open—Harlo sprinted in, face pale.

“Sir—Colonel Collins—Captain Reeves—you all need to see this.”

They followed him at a run.

Down the hall, in the embassy communications hub, the massive main screen flickered to life. A video feed was streaming—unsecured, forced through their encrypted network. A man in a black hooded mask filled the screen.

A distorted voice spoke:

“Captain Maya Reeves. You were warned. You were given a chance to walk away from Kandahar. You refused.”

Maya’s blood turned to ice.

“The man you captured tonight is irrelevant. We have already moved on.”

Beside the masked figure, a map lit up. Red points. High-value targets. Government officials. Supply routes. Embassy nodes.

A coordinated strike plan.

Too large for one mercenary.

Too precise for guesswork.

Curry stepped closer, fist clenched. “They’re planning simultaneous attacks…”

“Unless,” the masked figure continued, “Captain Reeves delivers the files she took in Kandahar to the location transmitted to her device. Alone.”

Then the screen cut to black.

The room was silent except for the hum of machines.

Collins exhaled sharply. “This is extortion. They need you to finish something for them.”

“No,” Maya said slowly. “They need to know how much I uncovered… and what I didn’t.”

Curry rubbed his temples. “We can’t send you alone.”

Maya shook her head. “General… they won’t attack if they think they’re getting what they want. Give me a team outside the perimeter. Hidden. I go in. I buy time. We take them down.”

Harlo stared at her, horrified. “Maya, they just tried to abduct you.”

“And now they’re threatening everyone else,” she said. “This isn’t about me anymore.”

Curry met her eyes. It wasn’t a commander evaluating a subordinate. It was a man deciding whether to send someone he respected into the fire.

Finally, he nodded. “You have one hour. Prep your gear.”

---

The abandoned textile warehouse at the edge of the city loomed like a carcass—windows broken, roof sagging, a half-dead sign creaking in the wind.

Maya stepped inside.

Her earpiece crackled softly. Collins’ voice whispered: “We’re in position. Ten Marines on the outer ring. Snipers ready.”

“Copy.”

The air smelled of dust and oil.

A single figure stood at the center—no hood, no mask.

A woman.

Elegant. Poised. Deadly.

Her voice was smooth, cultured. “Captain Reeves. You made good time.”

Maya froze. She recognized her instantly.

Dr. Seraphine Albrecht.

A civilian intelligence strategist. Consultant for multiple governments. A woman with access—too much access.

“You,” Maya whispered. “You were in Kandahar. You were advising the reconstruction team—”

“I was managing the corridor,” Seraphine corrected gently. “Your report disrupted a system worth billions.”

Maya’s pulse thundered. “You were financing militant factions.”

Seraphine smiled. “I was shaping geopolitics. For stability.”

“You mean profit.”

“Same thing.”

Maya’s voice shook with rage. “How many people died because of your ‘stability’?”

Seraphine tilted her head. “Fewer than will die if you refuse to hand over the files.”

Maya stepped closer. “I didn’t take the files.”

Seraphine blinked. “…What?”

“My report was redacted. What I discovered wasn’t proof—just enough to make you paranoid.”

The confusion in Seraphine’s eyes turned instantly to fury.

“You’re lying.”

“You’re unraveling,” Maya countered. “You sent a mercenary into a ballroom full of Marines. You panicked.”

Seraphine’s hand darted beneath her coat—metal glinting.

But Maya was faster.

A twist.

A strike.

A disarm.

A takedown.

Seraphine hit the floor with a thud, breath knocked from her lungs. Marines stormed in seconds later, securing the room.

Curry’s voice crackled: “Captain Reeves—status?”

Maya stared down at Seraphine, chest heaving.

“Target captured. Network exposed.”

She looked up at the night sky through the shattered windows—feeling the weight finally lift.

“It’s over.”

But Curry’s voice carried something deeper—relief, pride.

“Good work, Captain. Come home.”

Maya stepped outside as dawn broke, golden light slicing through the darkness.

The war she never asked for was finally finished.

And this time—

She walked away…