PART 2
The mission had smelled wrong before we ever left the forward operating base.
At 0600, Lieutenant Colonel David Harper stepped out of the briefing tent and told me I was being benched.
“You’re sitting this one out, Reeves.”
I stared at him.
“I know every goat trail, dry creek bed, cave system, and smuggling route in that valley.”
He smiled with polished Pentagon patience.
“Orders from higher.”
Higher.
In the military, higher can mean a general, a committee, or one nervous man sending dirty work downhill.
Behind Harper, Crowe watched from the tent entrance.
Broad shoulders.
Flat eyes.
A face made for passport photos and criminal lineups.
He smiled at me.
Not friendly.
Just enough to tell me he already knew the ending.
Two hours later, Corporal Jensen found me in the armory.
“Crowe pulled your files last night,” he whispered.
I kept loading magazines.
“Which files?”
“All of them. Your routes. Drone notes. Informants.”
Then his voice dropped.
“And your father’s archived records.”
May you like
My hand stopped.
My father’s records were sealed.
