Luke leaned against the table. Casual. Confident.
“They always try. That’s why we hit first.”
I shook my head.
“Not this time. The signature is too exact, too intentional. If you go in now, you’ll walk into their timing, not yours.”
He picked up a dry erase marker and circled the drop zone twice.
“We wait, we lose surprise. We move, we own the pace.”
“You move,” I said. “You die on their terms.”
There was a pause, the kind that hangs between two people who know exactly what the other is capable of, and exactly what pride can cost. Then Luke looked past me to the liaison.
“Command hasn’t issued a hold, right?”
The officer shifted, uncomfortable.
“No formal delay. No.”
“Then we proceed.”
My jaw clenched.
“This isn’t just a suggestion. It’s a professional risk flag.”
He looked at me—calm, cool, unwavering.
“You do your job, Evelyn. I’ll do mine.”
I wanted to scream. Not because he doubted me, but because he didn’t even consider I might be right. But I stayed quiet because in that room, surrounded by warfighters, silence wasn’t weakness. It was protocol.
Luke turned to his team.
“Gear up. We move at 1100. Target secured by 1200. Wheels up by sundown.”
The others nodded. No one questioned him. Why would they? He had medals, reputation, a smile that made people feel safe.
I walked out of the hut with the report still in my hand. No signatures, no timestamps, no authority—just a truth no one wanted to hear.
Back in the trailer, I sat down in my chair, staring at the green blip marking their convoy on the digital map. It crawled across the terrain toward the new drop zone, toward the signal, toward the lie. And I thought: if something goes wrong, it’ll be my name buried in the footnotes, because even when you’re right, if no one listens, it doesn’t matter.
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