PART 8
Webb’s convoy arrived just before sundown.
Six vehicles.
Armed.
Angry.
Desperate.
He stepped out first, sunglasses on, sleeves rolled, jaw tight.
When he saw me standing beside the captured vehicles, alive and calm, something ugly moved across his face.
“Vasquez,” he called. “Stand down.”
I tilted my head.
“That’s funny. Your report says I’m missing.”
He took off his sunglasses.
“You have no idea what you’ve stepped into.”
I laughed softly.
“That line sounds better before the evidence goes federal.”
His face changed.
Just a flicker.
But I saw it.
“You think anyone will believe you?” he snapped. “You’re alone in the desert with stolen classified equipment and armed civilians restrained at gunpoint.”
“Civilians?” I looked at the kneeling men. “That what we’re calling cleanup crews now?”
Webb stepped closer.
His soldiers fanned out behind him.
Some looked confused.
Some looked scared.
Hurley was among them, pale but standing.
Webb pointed at me.
“Disarm her.”
Nobody moved.
He turned slowly.
“That was an order.”
Hurley swallowed.
Then he said,
“Sir, CID is inbound.”
Webb stared at him.
“What did you say?”
Hurley’s voice shook, but he kept going.
“So is Colonel Ostroski. So is an Inspector General team. So are federal agents.”
For the first time, Webb looked past me.
In the distance, helicopters appeared over the ridge.
May you like
Not his.
Ostroski’s.
