PART 3
Jensen pressed a small encrypted recorder into my palm.
“From Mitchell,” he whispered.
Chief Warrant Officer William “Ironwolf” Mitchell had trained with my father.
He had also trained me.
“What did he say?” I asked.
Jensen swallowed.
“He said if this feels wrong, it already is.”
I slipped the recorder into my vest.
Then I boarded the Blackhawk.
Inside the helicopter, nobody talked.
That is how you know soldiers are either professional or guilty.
Crowe sat across from me with four men beside him.
Expensive optics.
Clean weapons.
Contractor tattoos half-hidden under sleeves.
The cabin lights painted everyone red.
Ten minutes from target, Crowe finally spoke.
“Sarah Morgan Reeves.”
I didn’t move.
“Nobody calls me Morgan.”
“Your father did.”
The words hit harder than turbulence.
Crowe smiled.
“Colonel James Reeves. Big moral guy. Thought honor paid better than money.”
My fingers touched my sidearm.
Crowe noticed.
“Easy,” he said. “We’re all friends here.”
May you like
“Friends don’t research dead fathers before missions.”
“No,” he said. “But business partners research obstacles.”
