Part 1

The chill of the desert night still clung to the metal bones of the hangar as I moved through the pre-dawn gloom. It was my favorite time, this hollow space between the last star and the first ray of sun. Alone. The air tasted of oil, sand, and the electric tang of dormant machinery. Before me, the AH-64 Apache was a sleeping beast, its silhouette a monstrous shadow against the hangar’s gaping mouth. Its name was Vengeance, a bitter irony that wasn’t lost on me. My job was its 30mm M230 chain gun, the dragon’s teeth. And I was just the janitor.

Tech Specialist Zephrine Thorne. That’s who I was here. A name as gray and forgettable as the concrete floor. For seven months at Forward Operating Base Vanguard, I had perfected the art of being background noise. Sleeves rolled just so, eyes always downcast, my entire existence compressed into the simple, repetitive motions of my job. Disassemble, clean, inspect, reassemble. A rhythm that kept the ghosts at bay. Most of the time.

The rest of the base was still wrapped in the heavy blanket of sleep, but my internal clock had been permanently set to a different, more brutal time zone five years ago. I didn’t need an alarm; the nightmares were punctual. So, I came here, to the quiet hum of the hangar, where the work was real and the memories couldn’t find purchase on the greasy steel.

I slid my toolbox across the floor, the metallic scrape echoing in the vast space. The process was a sacrament. I knew every pin, every spring, every groove of that weapon system better than I knew my own reflection anymore. My hands, slender but strong, moved with an economy born of a thousand repetitions, a muscle memory that had nothing to do with being a tech specialist. It was the memory of a killer, a soldier, a ghost. As I worked, my eyes scanned the hangar entrance, a ceaseless, subconscious sweep. Old habits don’t just die hard; they haunt you.

The distant clatter of boots and boisterous laughter announced the end of my solitude. The day shift was here. The sun began to bleed through the high, dusty windows, illuminating the swirling dust motes I disturbed. They danced in the light like tiny, fleeting spirits.

A group of young mechanics, barely old enough to shave, swaggered in, their laughter bouncing off the corrugated walls. They smelled of cheap coffee and youthful arrogance.

“Morning, General Dust Mop,” one of them, a kid named Peterson, chirped, snapping a mock salute in my direction. His friends snickered.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t look up. I was a rock, a tool bench, a part of the landscape. Their words were just wind. Acknowledging them would make me real, and real was dangerous. I kept my focus on the firing pin in my hand, its perfect, deadly simplicity a comfort.

As I reached for a torque wrench, the sleeve of my utility uniform slid back, revealing the thin, white line of a scar on my wrist. It was an old friend, a relic from a life before this one. Not the kind of mark you get from a slipped tool. It was the kind you get when you’re fighting for your life in a place that isn’t on any map.

Seven months here. Before Vanguard, it was five months at FOB Condor. Before that, Joint Base Reynolds in Texas. Always the support roles. Armory, supply, motor pool. Always in the back, in the shadows, where no one ever looks. The perfect camouflage for a dead woman.

Later, a formation of pilots strode through the hangar, their flight suits a kaleidoscope of patches and insignias. They were the knights of this kingdom, their confidence an armor polished by a thousand successful sorties. They passed me without a glance, their conversation a river of acronyms and tactical jargon. I was just a fixture, as inanimate as the fire extinguisher on the wall. War is a machine, and I was just one of its million invisible cogs.

Lunch in the mess hall was the same ritual of isolation. I sat at an empty table, my gaze sweeping the room in a practiced, circular pattern. A sergeant started to set his tray down across from me, then his eyes landed on my face. A flicker of… what? Not recognition. More like inconvenience. He mumbled an apology and moved to a table of his boisterous friends. I ate without tasting, my senses on high alert, cataloging exits, faces, and the subtle shifts in the room’s atmosphere.

The afternoon found me back in the hangar’s oppressive heat. The sun baked the metal roof, turning the air thick and suffocating. I rolled my sleeves higher, the sweat beading on my brow. That’s when it happened. A simple, careless mistake born of fatigue and the relentless desert sun. My sleeve, usually buttoned securely at the elbow, slipped, exposing the upper part of my arm.

And the patch.

It was faded, the black background worn to a charcoal gray, the intricate gold threading frayed and dull. An ancient, mythical design that had no place in this world of standard-issue insignias. It was a secret I had guarded for five long years, a brand that marked me as something other, something that wasn’t supposed to exist. I usually kept it covered, but in the shimmering heat, I had gotten sloppy.

The hangar was a symphony of controlled chaos. The roar of engines, the screech of tools, the shouted commands. I was lost in it, a ghost in the machine, until a sudden silence broke through the noise.

He was rushing, helmet tucked under his arm, his face a mask of hurried purpose. Major Tavish Blackwood. A living legend on the base. His flight suit was a roadmap of a hero’s journey—combat tours, elite qualifications, the kind of authority that needed no introduction. He wasn’t like the puffed-up Captain Callaway, the hangar commander who had dismissed me with a wave of his hand an hour earlier. Blackwood’s presence was earned, not assigned.

He hurried past me, then stopped dead. It was so abrupt he almost dropped his helmet. His body went rigid, and his head turned slowly, as if pulled by an invisible string. His eyes, sharp and intelligent, weren’t looking at me. They were fixed on my arm. On the patch.

The color drained from his face. The casual indifference of a superior officer evaporated, replaced by a look of stunned, gut-wrenching disbelief. I could see the gears turning in his head, the denial warring with the impossible evidence before him.

“Is that…?” His voice was a choked whisper, lost in the din of the hangar, but I heard it. I heard it in every cell of my body. “Is that patch real?”

This was it. The moment I had dreaded for 1,825 days. The end of the quiet.

My hands didn’t stop moving. I continued reassembling the bolt carrier group, my fingers steady even as my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My training screamed at me: deny, deflect, disappear. But my instincts, honed in the darkest corners of the world, knew it was too late. He had seen it. He knew.

An eternity stretched in the space of a few seconds. I gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. A confession. A death sentence.

Blackwood placed his helmet on a nearby crate with the reverence of a man laying a wreath on a grave. He approached me, his confident stride gone, replaced by a cautious, hesitant shuffle. The pilot who feared nothing was suddenly terrified.

“Eagle Talon Division,” he breathed, the name itself a sacrilege on his lips. “You were Talon?”

Silence. My hands were my shield. If I kept working, maybe the world would right itself. Maybe he would believe he was seeing things.

“That’s not possible,” he mumbled, more to himself than to me. “All Talon operatives were reported KIA after Samurand.”

That name. Samurand. It was a physical blow, a phantom limb aching with the memory of fire and blood and betrayal.

I finally stopped. The tool in my hand felt impossibly heavy. I lifted my head and met his gaze. I let him see it. The truth. The cold, hard, ancient thing that lived behind my eyes. The part of me that had died with my team and the part that had clawed its way back for vengeance. I said nothing, but my look was a gag order.

He straightened up instantly, a flicker of military discipline overriding his shock. He almost snapped to attention. “I’ll be discreet,” he said, his voice low and respectful. He grabbed his helmet and backed away, stealing one last, haunted glance at me before disappearing into the briefing room.

But the damage was done. A single thread had been pulled, and now my entire carefully woven reality was beginning to unravel.

Throughout the day, the atmosphere in the hangar shifted. It started with whispers. I saw Blackwood in hushed, urgent conversations with other senior officers. Heads would turn my way, their eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and awe. A group would form, someone would point, and a wave of silent understanding would ripple through the ranks. The veterans, the old-timers who had heard the ghost stories, backed away from me, giving me a wide berth as if I were radioactive. A few, without even knowing why, would instinctively straighten their posture when I walked past.

Captain Callaway, my self-important commander, watched the bizarre spectacle with growing irritation. “What the hell is going on?” I heard him ask a young lieutenant, who just stared at me, his face pale.

“That woman,” the lieutenant whispered, nodding in my direction. “The tech. She’s wearing a Talon patch.”

“A what?” Callaway scoffed, the sound dripping with derision.

“Eagle Talon Division, sir. Most classified unit in spec ops history. They were legends. Ghosts. They went to places even Delta Force wouldn’t touch.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Callaway snapped, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. “She’s just a tech. Been here for months, screws up half the time.”

A lie. I had never made a single mistake. My work was flawless, a point of pride that was all I had left of my former life.

“That’s what makes it so strange, sir,” the lieutenant replied, his voice dropping even lower. “If it’s real… she’s not just a tech. She’s a ghost.”

Callaway fell silent, his eyes finding me across the hangar. I saw the dawning horror on his face as he started to connect the dots. The woman he’d dismissed, mocked, and ignored for months. The woman who maintained million-dollar weapon systems with the calm precision of a surgeon. The woman who was now the center of a storm of high-level attention.

By late afternoon, an unnatural quiet had descended upon the hangar. The work continued, but the boisterous energy was gone, replaced by a tense, watchful silence. Every eye found its way back to me. I kept working, my movements deliberate, a mask of serene focus. But inside, every nerve was screaming. The pretense was over. The game was up. I could feel their eyes on me, stripping away the layers of my disguise.

As dusk began to settle, casting long, distorted shadows across the concrete, two MPs took up positions at the hangar entrance. They weren’t there this morning.

They were here for me.

My quiet days were over. The whispers were about to become questions. The questions would become orders. And the hunt I had been preparing for, the reason I had buried myself alive for five years, was about to begin.

The final click of the reassembled chain gun echoed in the silent hangar. I wiped my hands on a rag, the coarse fabric a familiar anchor in a world that was tilting on its axis. And then I saw him.

Colonel Austin Mercer, the base commander, striding through the main doors, his face a granite mask of authority. He wasn’t alone. His aide scurried behind him, and flanking them were three men in crisp, unmarked uniforms. Their posture screamed intelligence. They weren’t soldiers; they were hunters.

Mercer’s eyes found me immediately. He walked directly toward the Apache, his gaze fixed on my arm. The hangar held its breath.

He stopped a respectful ten feet away. His aide, looking winded, rushed to his side and whispered something in his ear. I saw Mercer’s expression shift, the professional skepticism melting away into pure, undiluted shock. He straightened his uniform, a subtle but significant gesture. He was no longer addressing a subordinate.

He cleared his throat, and his voice rang out in the cavernous silence.

“Lieutenant Colonel Thorne,” he said, the name and rank hitting the air like a thunderclap. Young mechanics gasped. Callaway, watching from the shadows, went white as a sheet. “The Pentagon confirmed your identity twenty minutes ago.”

He took a breath, his eyes never leaving mine. “Eagle Talon Division. Operation Midnight Protocol. Seven confirmed Deep Shadow missions. Three Congressional Medals of Honor, classified under presidential directive. The only survivor of the Samurand incident.”

With every word, he rebuilt the woman I had tried to bury. He resurrected the ghost.

“You were reported KIA five years ago, ma’am,” Mercer finished, his voice heavy with the unspoken question. “Why are you here?”

I finally spoke, my voice raspy from disuse, but steady. Every eye was on me. The invisible woman was now the only thing they could see.

“Because dead women don’t get asked questions,” I said, my gaze sweeping over the sea of stunned faces. “And I needed the quiet. I needed to disappear while I figured out who betrayed my team.”

Part 2

A collective gasp sucked the air from the hangar. The revelation hung there, heavy and suffocating, twisting the familiar space into a theater of disbelief. My words, a direct contradiction to the official narrative, sent a shockwave through the assembled personnel.

“Your team was ambushed during an extraction,” Mercer countered, his voice tight, his mind clearly racing to reconcile the official report with the ghost standing before him. “Intelligence indicated a security leak. From within Talon itself.”

I took a step forward, closing the distance between us. The hunter in me was awake now, the instincts I had suppressed for five years surging to the surface. “Not from within Talon,” I corrected, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous pitch that brooked no argument. “From within this base.”

The murmur that rippled through the crowd was electric. Men and women who had served here for months, who trusted the person standing next to them with their lives, now exchanged uneasy, suspicious glances. I had just planted a seed of doubt, and it would grow like a cancer.

“Vanguard wasn’t operational five years ago,” Mercer stated, a line of confusion creasing his weathered brow.

“No,” I conceded. “But sixty percent of your current command and support staff transferred from Joint Base Archer in California. The same base that handled our mission logistics for the Samurand operation.” I turned my back on him, a calculated gesture of authority, and walked to the Apache’s cockpit. “May I, Colonel?”

Mercer hesitated for only a second before nodding. He was a smart man, a man who knew when the rules of engagement had irrevocably changed. I swung myself up into the gunner’s seat, the familiar feel of the controls a comforting weight in my hands. My fingers flew across the console, entering a series of override commands that no maintenance tech should know. The avionics screens, usually dark, flickered to life, bathing my face in a green glow. But instead of flight data, a complex web of encrypted data streams filled the display. It was my secret project, my five-year obsession.

“For the past seven months,” I began, my voice amplified by the hangar’s acoustics, “I’ve been tracking ghost transmissions moving through Vanguard’s secure networks. Someone here has been passing classified flight patterns, patrol routes, and operational details to a private military corporation.” I let the name hang in the air, a drop of poison. “They call themselves Obsidian Hand.”

Major Blackwood stepped forward, his face a mask of confusion. “Obsidian Hand? They’re a defense contractor. A legitimate one. They provide security for half our diplomatic missions overseas.”

“They’re also selling our weapons technology to hostile states,” I shot back, my eyes locking onto his. “My team discovered their operation during a surveillance mission in Samurand. We gathered enough evidence to bring their entire rotten enterprise down. The day before we were scheduled to transmit the data, they ambushed us. They eliminated us.” My voice cracked on the last word, a sliver of the raw, unending grief I kept buried. “At least, they thought they did.”

The hangar, which had been a place of order and routine just hours ago, was now a pressure cooker of controlled chaos. Senior officers crowded around the Apache, their faces grim as I pointed out the patterns on the screen—subtle data packets hidden within routine comms, timed perfectly with compromised patrols and “unlucky” enemy encounters. Captain Callaway, who had once been the master of this domain, now stood at the periphery, looking small and utterly irrelevant, his earlier arrogance replaced by a nauseating cocktail of shock and shame.

“How did you survive Samurand?” one of the intelligence officers finally asked, his voice sharp, analytical.

The question landed like a punch to the gut. The hangar faded away, and for a terrifying second, I was back there, in the dust and the blood, the screams of my friends echoing in my ears. I could smell the cordite, taste the metallic tang of fear.

“I was separated from my team during the initial RPG attack,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. It was the only way I could tell it. “Our vehicle was hit. I was thrown clear. By the time I fought my way back to the extraction point…” I paused, the words catching in my throat. “They were already gone. I found their bodies three days later.”

The memory was a gaping wound, one that would never heal. I had buried them myself, under a foreign sky, with nothing but my hands and a piece of twisted metal from the wreckage. I had sworn an oath over their makeshift graves. An oath of vengeance.

“I spent two years officially dead,” I continued, pushing the memory back into its cage. “Hunting, gathering intel on Obsidian’s network. When I traced their primary communications hub to Vanguard, I created a new identity and requested a transfer. Low profile, access to the systems I needed, and plenty of time to watch.”

“And this Apache?” Mercer asked, his eyes narrowing as he finally understood. “Why this specific aircraft?”

“Because this isn’t just any Apache,” I replied, a grim satisfaction in my voice. “This bird was recently retrofitted with the prototype for the new Hawkeye targeting system. A system that, ironically, Obsidian Hand’s tech division helped develop as a subcontractor. They built a backdoor into their own system. I’ve just been using it to listen in.” I reached up and pulled the faded Talon patch from my sleeve. The black and gold felt heavy in my hand, a relic of a life I could never reclaim. “This was a mistake,” I said, handing it to a stunned Blackwood. “It shouldn’t have been seen. But since it has… the mission is live.”

I looked at Mercer, my eyes cold and hard. “They know I’m here. They’ve known for weeks, maybe longer. They’ve just been waiting. They’re coming.”

“Who’s coming?” he asked, though the look on his face told me he already knew.

“The same people who killed my team,” I said, turning back to the Apache, its deadly beauty a mirror of my own purpose. “They’ve been looking for the ghost of Samurand for five years.” My fingers danced across the console one last time. “And now they’ve found me.”

As if on cue, a deep, concussive BOOM rolled across the base, shaking the very foundations of the hangar. The windows rattled, and dust rained down from the rafters. A split second later, the base alarms began to shriek, their frantic wail a symphony of imminent death.

“That’s the north perimeter!” Mercer yelled, already sprinting toward the command center comms station. “All personnel, battle stations! This is not a drill! I repeat, this is not a drill!”

The hangar exploded into motion. The disciplined chaos of a base under attack. But through it all, I remained calm, a still point in the swirling storm. I had been waiting for this. I was ready.

Blackwood rushed to my side, his face pale but his eyes resolute. “They hit us at shift change,” he said, his voice tight. “Maximum confusion.”

“Standard Obsidian tactics,” I confirmed without looking at him. “They’ll have a primary strike team targeting this hangar. They know the data is on this Apache. It’s the only complete proof of their entire treasonous network.”

“How many should we expect?” he asked.

“At least a platoon. Forty, maybe fifty operators. Former special forces, top-tier mercenaries. Well-equipped, highly trained, and utterly ruthless.”

Blackwood glanced at the Talon patch in his hand, then back at me. “Ma’am, with all due respect,” he said, “one Talon operative and a hangar full of maintenance crew and a few stray Marines aren’t going to hold off fifty elite mercs.”

For the first time in five years, a genuine, mirthless smile touched my lips. “You’re right, Major,” I said. I reached into my forgotten toolbox and pulled out the false bottom. Nestled in the custom-cut foam was a SIG Sauer P226 and a seven-inch combat knife. My real tools. “That’s why we’re not going to be here when they arrive.”

I leaped from the cockpit, landing silently on the concrete. “We’re not going to hold the hangar. We’re going to use it as a chokepoint. They want the Apache? They’ll have to come through hell to get it.” I looked at the wide-eyed mechanics and the terrified but determined support staff. “Get me every hydraulic line, every pressurized tank, every barrel of flammable fluid you can find. We’re going to turn this hangar into a death trap.”

The ghost was gone. The commander was back. And I was about to remind Obsidian Hand why Eagle Talon Division was the stuff of nightmares.

Part 3

The roar of incoming fire was a familiar song. The high-pitched shriek of bullets ricocheting off the hangar’s steel frame, the percussive thump-thump-thump of heavy machine guns, the deafening crump of grenades exploding just outside the main doors. To the mechanics and technicians cowering behind tool chests and engine blocks, it was the sound of terror. To me, it was a prelude.

“Callaway!” I barked, my voice cutting through the din. The captain, who had been frozen in a state of shock, snapped his head toward me. “Get your people moving! I want every fuel line, every hydraulic hose, every pressurized canister rigged to those support beams. Turn this place into a goddamn firecracker!”

The direct order, the raw command in my voice, shocked him back to life. He nodded, his face pale but determined, and began shouting orders. The fear that had paralyzed them was channeled into frantic, purposeful action. They were no longer mechanics; they were saboteurs. My saboteurs.

Blackwood was at my side, his sidearm drawn, his eyes scanning the multiple entrances. “They’ve breached the south wall,” he reported, his voice grim. “They’re flanking us.”

“Let them,” I said, a cold fire burning in my gut. I pointed to the massive, multi-ton engine hoist hanging from the ceiling. “Get that thing wired to the main power conduit. On my signal, you cut the emergency release.”

He understood immediately. A grim smile touched his lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

The main hangar doors, designed to withstand a sandstorm, buckled under a coordinated explosive charge. They blew inward with a deafening groan of tortured metal, and through the smoke and fire, the silhouettes appeared. They moved like a pack of wolves—low, fast, and silent. Obsidian Hand had arrived.

They poured in, spreading out in a textbook assault formation, their high-tech rifles with integrated optics sweeping the hangar. They expected to find terrified soldiers and panicked resistance. They found a hangar that was eerily quiet, filled with shadows and the smell of jet fuel.

“Now,” I whispered into my comm unit.

From the darkened catwalks above, my ad-hoc team of mechanics opened the valves. A torrent of hydraulic fluid and flammable de-icing agent rained down, not on the mercs, but on the floor in front of them, creating a treacherous, invisible swamp. The lead operator slipped, his balance gone for a split second.

It was all I needed. From my position behind the Apache’s landing gear, I fired. Two rounds, center mass. He went down without a sound.

The hangar erupted. The Obsidian operators, momentarily confused by the attack from above and the loss of their point man, returned fire at the catwalks. It was the wrong move.

“Blackwood!” I yelled.

There was a shower of sparks from the ceiling, and the massive engine hoist, weighing as much as a truck, came crashing down, severing the catwalks and sending two mercenaries plummeting to the concrete below. The rest were now trapped on our side of the greasy, flammable lake I’d created.

They were professionals, though. They adapted. A team leader barked orders, and they began to advance again, this time using the large tool containers for cover. They were closing on the Apache. They were closing on me.

“Time to go, Major!” I shouted, providing covering fire as Blackwood sprinted for the Apache’s cockpit. Bullets sparked around me, chipping concrete from the pillar I was using as cover. A piece of shrapnel sliced across my cheek, a hot sting of pain.

I saw a mercenary level a grenade launcher at the Apache’s cockpit. There was no time. I broke cover, firing on the move, a desperate, controlled sprint toward the gunner’s seat. Three rounds took him down, but his grenade was already launched. It sailed through the air in a lazy arc.

The world went white. The explosion rocked the Apache, the force of it throwing me against the fuselage. My ears rang, and my vision swam. But the reinforced canopy held. Blackwood was safe.

I hauled myself into the gunner’s seat, my body screaming in protest. Below us, the remaining Obsidian mercs were advancing, their numbers still overwhelming. A squad of Marines, drawn by the firefight, had set up a defensive line at the hangar entrance, but they were being pinned down.

“Lift us off!” I yelled, my voice hoarse. “Get us in the air!”

“Strap in!” Blackwood’s voice was a calm anchor in the chaos.

The twin turbines of the Apache screamed to life. The familiar, soul-shaking vibration of the rotor blades spinning up was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. The hangar filled with a swirling vortex of dust, debris, and smoke.

“Tower, this is Ghost One, requesting immediate takeoff!” Blackwood’s voice was pure professionalism, as if he were asking for permission to taxi on a quiet Tuesday.

A frantic voice crackled back. “Ghost One, you are cleared! Godspeed!”

The Apache lifted, not smoothly, but with a lurch, a wounded beast rising. Below, the battle was a chaotic tableau. I could see the muzzle flashes, the desperate fight for survival. My fight. I swiveled the M230 chain gun, the dragon’s teeth, toward the enemy.

“Let’s even the odds,” I growled, and squeezed the trigger.

The 30mm cannon spoke, its voice a deep, guttural roar that dwarfed everything else. The high-explosive rounds tore through the mercenaries’ positions, turning their cover into shrapnel. The effect was devastating. Their disciplined assault dissolved into a panicked scramble for survival.

We rose out of the hangar and into the dawn sky, a sky streaked with the angry red of battle. But we weren’t clear. Warning lights flashed across my console.

“Missile lock!” Blackwood yelled, his hands a blur on the controls. “Two o’clock high!”

I looked up and saw it—an unmarked attack helicopter, sleek and black like a shark, rising to meet us. Obsidian air support.

“Deploying countermeasures!” Blackwood banked the Apache so hard I felt my teeth grind. A stream of brilliant flares erupted from our fuselage. The missile, confused, veered off and exploded harmlessly against the desert floor.

But the enemy helicopter was already repositioning, its own chin gun spitting tracers at us.

“I’m not running from them,” I said, my fingers flying across the Hawkeye targeting system. This was my true weapon. The data streams I had been monitoring for months now gave me an unparalleled advantage. I could see their system’s refresh rates, their targeting frequencies. I knew what they were going to do before they did.

“Give me a clear shot, Blackwood.”

“You got it, Colonel.” He threw the Apache into a daring, near-suicidal dive, plummeting toward the ground before leveling out just feet above the sand. The enemy pilot, surprised by the aggressive maneuver, followed us down. It was a fatal mistake. He exposed his less-armored belly.

The Hawkeye system chirped, a sweet song of death. Solid lock.

“Fox two,” I whispered, and launched the missile.

The Hellfire missile was a streak of vengeance. It slammed into the enemy chopper, blowing it apart in a magnificent, terrible fireball that lit up the morning.

But as the debris rained down, the radar screamed again. Two more contacts, appearing from behind a mesa. They had been lying in wait.

“They really want you dead,” Blackwood commented, his voice grim.

“They want this data,” I corrected him. “My death is just a bonus.” I switched the comms to a secure channel, a direct line to CENTCOM command that bypassed all local networks. The channel my team was supposed to use five years ago. “CENTCOM command, this is Lieutenant Colonel Zephrine Thorne, Eagle Talon. Do you copy?”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then a voice, crackling with static and disbelief. “Ma’am… we have you. Stand by.”

“Negative, CENTCOM. No time. I am transmitting the complete Obsidian Hand file. Code-named ‘Serpent’s Kiss.’ It contains proof of treason at the highest levels. I say again, Serpent’s Kiss is live.”

“Zeph, they’re on us!” Blackwood yelled as our aircraft shuddered from multiple impacts.

I initiated the data burst, a compressed stream of terabytes that would take sixty seconds to transmit. Sixty seconds of staying alive.

“Just keep us flying, Major,” I said, my full attention now on the two black helicopters bracketing us.

What followed was a deadly ballet in the sky. Blackwood pushed the Apache to its absolute limits, weaving and dodging through canyons and around rock formations. I was a demon in the gunner’s seat, my mind and the Hawkeye system fused into one. I anticipated their moves, forced them into mistakes, and answered with precise, lethal fire.

One chopper went down, its tail rotor shredded by a burst from my chain gun. It spun out of control and crashed into a cliffside. The second, the last one, was more cautious, staying at a distance, peppering us with rocket fire. The data transmission was at ninety percent.

A rocket exploded just behind our tail boom. The Apache screamed in protest, a dozen alarms blaring at once. We were losing hydraulic pressure.

“I can’t hold her steady!” Blackwood grunted, fighting the controls.

“Just ten more seconds,” I pleaded. The targeting system was flickering, struggling to maintain a lock through the damage. “Come on, you bastard.”

The enemy helicopter, sensing our distress, moved in for the kill.

“Transmission complete,” the computer announced, its calm voice an absurdity in the middle of hell.

“It’s done,” I told Blackwood. “Get us out of here.”

“I’m trying!”

The enemy was almost on top of us. I had one missile left. The targeting reticle flickered and died.

“Guns, guns, guns,” I muttered, switching to manual targeting. I lead the enemy aircraft, a lifetime of instinct guiding my hands, and let loose the last of the M230’s fury. The stream of 30mm rounds walked across their fuselage, stitching a line of fire right up to their cockpit. For a heart-stopping moment, it kept coming. Then, it nosed over, its rotor blades slowing, and plunged into the desert below.

Silence. Blessed, ringing silence, broken only by the whine of our dying engine and the frantic beeping of a dozen critical warnings.

Blackwood managed to wrestle the crippled Apache back toward the base, crash-landing it on the main runway in a shower of sparks and screeching metal. The moment we touched down, fire crews were on us, dousing the smoking engine.

I stumbled out of the cockpit, my body a tapestry of aches and bruises. The base was a scene of carnage, but the fighting had stopped. The surviving Obsidian mercs, their air support gone and their mission a catastrophic failure, had vanished back into the desert.

Colonel Mercer was there to meet me, his face a mixture of awe and profound relief. “It’s over,” he said. “CENTCOM is in an uproar. Arrests are already being made. You did it, Colonel.”

I looked around at the smoke, the wounded being tended to, the faces of the young mechanics who had fought like lions. I looked at the Talon patch in Blackwood’s hand. I had won. My team was avenged. But it didn’t feel like a victory.

“The mission isn’t over, Colonel,” I said, my voice weary. “We cut off the head of the snake. But Obsidian Hand is a hydra. There are more.”

I spent five years in the shadows, a ghost haunted by the past. Now, I had stepped back into the light. But I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I could never go back to a quiet life. I was Lieutenant Colonel Zephrine Thorne. I was the last of the Eagle Talon Division. My war had just begun. And this time, I wouldn’t be hiding. I would be hunting.