Part 2
“Keep your hand pressed firmly down on that lid, soldier,” I ordered, my voice dangerously calm as I closed the distance between us. “If you lift it, the tension releases, the firing pin strikes, and we both turn into pink mist. Do you understand me?”
The private swallowed hard, tears cutting tracks through the soot on his young face. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, his knuckles white with the strain of holding down the heavy metal cover.
I dropped to my knees, peering through the two-inch gap between the lid and the rim of the concrete trash can. It was a crude but highly effective improvised explosive device. The wire was pulled taut, held in place only by the downward pressure of the lid. I pulled a sleek titanium multi-tool from my belt—hardly standard issue for a contract nurse. I reached into the narrow gap, my fingers brushing against the cold copper wire. Breathing slowly, matching my heart rate to the slow, steady rhythm of my training, I clamped the pliers onto the firing mechanism, locking it in place, and snipped the primary tripwire.
“Step back,” I told the private, gently taking the weight of the lid. I eased it off and disarmed the blasting cap. “You’re safe. Go help the medics.”
Before I could even stand up, a heavy hand grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around. Three Military Police officers had their M4 rifles leveled at my chest.
“Hands on your head! Do it now!” the lead MP screamed.
I didn’t resist. I interlaced my fingers behind my head, letting them slam me against the side of a shattered security vehicle. They cuffed me tight. It made sense. A timid nurse doesn’t perform combat triage, execute a flawless needle thoracostomy, and defuse an IED in under three minutes. I was the anomaly in the blast zone, making me their prime suspect.
I sat in a windowless interrogation room for what felt like hours, the cuffs cutting into my wrists. The door finally swung open. It wasn’t an MP who walked in. It was Marcus Thorne, a veteran DIA handler with eyes like chipped ice and a demeanor that commanded instant obedience.
“Take the cuffs off,” Marcus ordered the bewildered MP captain standing behind him. “She’s with me. You have jurisdiction over the base; I have jurisdiction over national security. Get out.”
Once the door clicked shut, Marcus tossed a file onto the metal table. “Your cover is blown, Maya. But we have a much bigger problem. The bomb was a distraction.”
“The envelope,” I said, rubbing my raw wrists. “Someone swapped it before the handoff. Miller opening it was just the trigger. Who tipped them off?”
“That’s the problem,” Marcus said grimly, leaning over the table. “Only three people knew the time and location of that drop. You, me, and the asset. We have a mole deep inside the base’s security infrastructure. And while everyone was busy dealing with the explosion, the asset’s safehouse went dark.”
Panic flared in my chest. The asset, Anton, was a former Eastern European weapons engineer who had turned over a goldmine of intel. If the mole got to him, the entire operation was a catastrophic failure.
“Where is he?” I asked, already stripping off the blood-soaked medical scrub top to reveal the black tactical undershirt beneath. I grabbed my sidearm and holster from the evidence box Marcus had brought in.
“He followed protocol,” Marcus replied. “When the blast went off, he ducked into the subterranean maintenance tunnels under Sector 4. But the mole knows the protocol too. You need to get to him before they do.”
I didn’t wait for dismissal. I bolted from the room, navigating the chaotic, locked-down corridors of Fort Braxley. I found the access hatch behind the motor pool and dropped into the dark, damp maintenance tunnels. The air down here smelled of ozone and stagnant water. I drew my weapon, clicking the tactical light on.
I moved silently, clearing corner after corner in the labyrinth of pipes and concrete. Finally, in a dead-end alcove near the main water valves, I saw him. Anton was huddled in the corner, clutching a metal pipe, his eyes wide with terror.
“Anton, it’s me. Maya. DIA,” I whispered, lowering my weapon slightly so as not to spook him. “I’m here to get you out.”
Before Anton could take a step toward me, the heavy thud of combat boots echoed from the tunnel behind me. I spun around, raising my gun.
A figure stepped out of the shadows, illuminated by the harsh beam of my flashlight. He was limping slightly, his uniform covered in dust from the explosion, but the 9mm pistol in his hand was perfectly steady.
It was Sergeant Brody Miller.
“You know, nurse,” Miller said, a wicked, bloodstained grin spreading across his face. “You really should have just stayed out of my way.”
Part 3
“Miller,” I said, keeping my weapon leveled perfectly at the center of his chest. “I saw you go down in the blast. You were right on top of it.”
“Directional charges are a beautiful thing if you know exactly where to stand,” Miller chuckled, though the sound was wet and strained. He spat a wad of blood onto the concrete floor. “I didn’t plan on opening it myself, but you were getting too nosy. I had to trigger the chaos before you realized the extraction codes were fake.”
“You sold us out,” I said, my voice dripping with disgust. I quickly calculated the distance between us. Ten feet. Too far to rush without taking a bullet. “A local base cop taking a payoff to execute a federal witness. How much was your badge worth, Brody?”
“Enough to get me out of this desert,” he snarled. “The explosion was supposed to take you out, and I was supposed to be the brave surviving officer who ‘heroically’ tracked the fleeing terrorist down here into the tunnels. Instead, I get to kill a DIA agent and the asset, and claim you were the mole all along.”
“You talk too much,” I said.
Before he could pull the trigger, I kicked a heavy, loose piece of steel piping straight at his shins. Miller flinched, firing a shot that cracked past my ear and shattered the concrete wall behind me.
I didn’t shoot back. Instead, I closed the gap.
I ducked under his second wild shot, driving my shoulder hard into his ribs. The impact knocked the breath out of him, but Miller was a big man, heavily muscled and desperate. He brought the butt of his pistol down toward the back of my skull. I raised my left forearm, blocking the strike with a bone-jarring crack, and simultaneously drove my right fist violently into his throat.
Miller gagged, dropping his weapon. But he didn’t go down. He lunged, wrapping his massive hands around my neck, slamming me backward into the thick steel water pipes. The metal bit into my spine. My vision started to blur at the edges as his thumbs dug into my windpipe, choking the life out of me.
I didn’t panic. Panic gets you killed. I dropped my gun, freeing both my hands. I reached up, grabbed his right wrist with a vice-like grip, and pivoted my hips violently. Using his own forward momentum and weight against him, I threw him over my shoulder.
Miller hit the concrete floor with a sickening thud. Before he could recover, I dropped my knee squarely onto his chest, pinning him. I grabbed his right arm, extending it into a brutal armbar, hyperextending the elbow until I felt the joint pop. Miller screamed, a raw, agonizing sound of defeat.
I rolled him onto his stomach, pulled a pair of zip-ties from my belt, and secured his wrists tightly behind his back.
Breathing heavily, I retrieved my weapon and turned to Anton, who was staring at me in absolute shock. “Come on,” I gasped, wiping blood from my split lip. “We’re leaving.”
Ten minutes later, we emerged into the blinding Texas sunlight. Marcus was waiting by a heavily armored SUV, backed up by a squad of trusted, federal-level tactical operators. They immediately took custody of Anton and hauled a groaning, defeated Sergeant Miller into the back of a transport van.
“Nice work, Agent Vance,” a deep voice boomed. General Sterling, the base commander, walked over, flanked by Marcus. The General looked at me, taking in my bruised face, torn clothes, and the complete absence of the nervous contract nurse he thought he had hired. “I owe you an apology. And my thanks. You saved a lot of my people today.”
“Just doing the job, General,” I replied, standing at attention despite the aching in my ribs.
Marcus handed me a fresh manila folder—this one without a red wax seal. “Anton is secured and heading to a black site. Miller is going to sing like a canary about his buyers once the FBI gets a hold of him. You’re done here, Maya. Your flight leaves in an hour.”
I took the file, feeling the familiar, heavy weight of a new mission, a new identity, and a new target. I looked back at the parade grounds, the smoke finally clearing in the Texas breeze. The mousy nurse was gone forever. I was exactly who I was meant to be.
I opened the folder, turned on my heel, and walked toward the waiting chopper.
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