PART 1
Lieutenant Colonel Marcus Webb left me in the Arizona desert with no radio, no GPS, three bullets, and a smile on his face.
He thought the heat would finish what his cowardice started.
He forgot one thing.
I had spent eleven years learning how men like him hide.
And I had receipts.
The convoy pulled away in a cloud of red dust.
Four armored trucks crawled over the ridge like they had just dropped off trash.
Twelve soldiers sat inside those vehicles.
Not one looked back.
Except Webb.
His window was down.
He watched me as his truck passed, calm and almost pleased.
I gave him a lazy two-finger salute.
His smile twitched.
Good.
Men like Webb fed on fear.
I had no intention of donating any.
When the last engine disappeared, the desert swallowed everything.
No voices.
No tires.
No radio chatter.
Just heat, wind, and a turkey vulture circling overhead like it had already filed paperwork on me.
“Cute,” I muttered.
My name was Staff Sergeant Lena Vasquez.
According to Webb, I was a discipline problem.
A loudmouth.
A woman who asked too many questions.
According to my file, I was an Army electronic warfare specialist with eleven years of field experience, three combat deployments, and a reputation for finding problems powerful men wanted buried.
That was why Webb hated me.
But standing there alone in the Sonoran heat, I already knew one thing.
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They weren’t leaving by mistake.
They had delivered me.
