THEY FORCED THE CLERK TO HER KNEES, BUT WHEN HER JACKET RIPPED OFF, A FOUR-STAR GENERAL DROPPED TO SALUTE

The sound of automatic weapon fire rolled across the distant perimeter of Fort Meridian, followed closely by the hollow thump of 40mm grenades detonating near the outer vehicle staging area. The sudden violence shattered the illusion that an American military base was a sanctuary.

Vane panicked instantly, his hands trembling violently as he scrambled to his feet. ""What is that? Who is attacking a domestic installation?""

""The people you sold me out to,"" I said calmly, stripping Vance's four-star jacket off and folding it neatly on the metal table.

Beneath the olive T-shirt, three years of supply-clerk complacency vanished in an instant. My posture changed; my spine straightened, balance sinking low and centered. I turned to Vance's operator. ""I need an M4 carbine with an Aimpoint optic, three loaded magazines, and a sidearm. Standard nine-millimeter.""

The operator looked at General Vance, who gave an immediate, decisive nod. ""Issue her whatever she needs. Specialist Blake's operational status is restored to active command. Code name Raven Twelve.""

The operator popped the lock on the vehicle’s integrated weapons locker. Within fifteen seconds, I had a lightweight combat vest strapped over my chest, a tactical belt cinched tight, and a customized short-barreled carbine resting naturally in my hands. The muscle memory was so absolute it felt as though I had never left the mountains of Afghanistan. I racked the charging handle, chambering a round with a clean, metallic snap.

""Stay inside this vehicle under guard, Vane,"" Vance ordered, drawing his service weapon. ""If you so much as reach for a doorknob, my detail has orders to drop you.""

We stepped out of the command Suburban into total chaos. Thick black smoke was billowing from the gate shack two hundred yards away. A commercial white delivery van had smashed through the chain-link barricade, while a second vehicle had cut straight across the grass toward the heavy motor pool where the armored personnel carriers and fuel tankers were parked.

Soldiers across Fort Meridian were running in disarray. Most domestic troops on post didn't carry live ammunition during regular duty hours; they were completely defenseless against a coordinated strike team armed with suppressed automatic carbines and body armor.

""They aren't here to capture me,"" I yelled over the crackle of gunfire. ""They know Vance is on site. This is a scorched-earth extraction. They want the subdermal chip cut out of my arm and everyone else in this vehicle dead so there are no witnesses.""

""Blake, fall back to the hangars!"" Vance shouted, his personal security detail forming a tight diamond around him. ""We have gunships spooling up at Hunter Army Airfield, but they're twenty minutes out!""

""Twenty minutes means forty dead recruits, General!"" I shouted back. ""They're moving toward the barracks to create a hostage distraction. I know their doctrine. Apex Vanguard uses contractor shock tactics. I'm flanking the maintenance bay.""

Before Vance could countermand my movement, I sprinted across the open blacktop.

Bullets snapped overhead, punching holes through the metal siding of the logistics warehouse. I dove behind the massive rubber tire of a ten-ton transport truck just as a burst of 5.56mm rounds chewed through the concrete where my feet had been a second earlier.

Peering around the wheel hub, I spotted three shooters. They wore sterile gray tactical rigs, balaclavas, and high-cut ballistic helmets—identical to the private security operators that had led my twelve-man team into the valley of death three years ago.

The anger that had been simmering beneath a mask of quiet obedience for three long years erupted into absolute, lethal clarity.

I leaned out from the tire, aligned the red dot of the Aimpoint with the center mass of the lead shooter, and squeezed the trigger twice. Controlled pair. The lead gunman collapsed instantly.

The other two shooters pivoted, their weapons tracking toward my position, but I had already rolled underneath the chassis of the truck, popping up on the opposite side. I fired through the cab windows, shattering the glass and dropping the second operator before he could acquire his target.

The third shooter bolted toward the cover of a fuel tanker, raising an RPG-7 launcher toward the command Suburban where General Vance and Vane were sheltering.

""Not today,"" I growled under my breath.

I sprinted forward, discarded my carbine as it ran dry, drew my sidearm, and fired four rounds through the thin aluminum casing of the tanker's wheel well. The rounds found their mark. The third shooter dropped the launcher, clutching his shattered leg as he slammed into the asphalt.

I closed the distance in two seconds flat, kicked the launcher away, and pressed the muzzle of my pistol directly against the bridge of his nose.

""Take off the mask,"" I ordered, my voice trembling with controlled rage.

The wounded mercenary slowly peeled back the Nomex hood. I recognized the jagged scar across his cheekbone immediately.