Chapter Five #2
“I’d guess a few hundred people live inside the wire,” Thomas said. “Enough trained fighters to make any sane man think twice about coming through that gate. Exactly what we need.”
“Agreed, but…” I said, trailing off.
“Liv?” Bodhi said, gently waking her. “We’re here.”
“The male is Corporal Fonseco,” Wimble said, nodding toward the small guard building. “He goes by Fonzie. He comes off as intimidating at first, but he warms up. The female is their best marksman, Sergeant Spenser Marcel.”
“Marcel?” I asked.
He nodded. “Naomi’s cousin. There’s another one, too. Her sister, Kansas. They’re both scarier than Fonseco, and Spenser may look like a flaxen-haired ballerina, but unlike Fonseco, she never warms up. Best to just stay out of her way.”
Fonseco stepped out of the guard box with his weapon slung but ready, his flashlight cutting slow, methodical passes over and under the SUV.
Once he finished, Wimble leaned out the window and spoke quietly.
Credentials were checked. Names confirmed.
Our phones and sidearms were requested and surrendered without hesitation.
Bags were opened, searched, zipped again.
Everyone except Stella was asked to step out, one by one, and subjected to a brief, but efficient pat-down.
Then, they searched the interior. Spenser opened Stella’s door last. She rifled through the baby bag then moved on to Stella.
Spenser’s touch was careful but exact as she checked the car seat, then ran her hands over Stella’s clothes and diaper, gentle enough not to wake her.
I felt the urge to thank her—for the care, for the restraint—but Wimble’s earlier warning echoed in my head. I decided to keep my appreciation to myself.
Spenser left us for the guard box, Fonseco took a step back, his hands clasped behind him. “You’re clear to proceed to the second checkpoint, Agent Wimble.”
Spenser opened the guard box door to finally speak, and it was every bit as cold as Wimble described. “You know the drill, Wimble. Lights off past the bend. Stay on the marked route.”
“Roger that,” Wimble said, rolling up his window.
The gate began to slide open, metal grinding low and slow, the sound carrying in the open desert like a warning instead of a welcome.
Beyond it, the compound waited, dark shapes and muted lights arranged with purpose instead of comfort.
Nothing about it was inviting. It was built for people who expected trouble and planned to survive it.
Once we cleared the gate, it was obvious we were entering a place governed by rules we didn’t set, protected by systems we didn’t control, and subject to consequences we couldn’t negotiate our way out of.
At the second checkpoint, we were cleared to proceed to housing by internal security. The SUV rolled deeper into the compound, past buildings set back from the road, vehicles parked with military precision. Somewhere in the distance, a generator hummed.
Wimble parked us near a long, low structure and cut the engine. “This is the temporary housing unit,” he said, “and where your family will stay. Their clearance is short-term. You’ll be staying here tonight, but don’t unpack. You’ll be reassigned to private accommodations tomorrow.”
“Understood,” Thomas said, stepping out.
The rest of us slowly exited the car and stretched as Wimble walked to the back to open the hatch. Thomas helped him unload, muscles tight, movements economical. Bodhi followed, grabbing bags without being asked.
I unbuckled Stella and lifted her, her arms immediately wrapping around my neck. Olive stood off to the side, watching, her expression unreadable.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said softly, stepping next to her. “In a day or two, you’ll get to see Trent, Cami… Falyn.”
Olive nodded once. Not the reaction I expected, but I wasn’t exactly surprised.
Wimble waited until the last bag hit the ground. “General Marcel will expect to see you at first light,” he said. “After that, your entire family goes through orientation. Toddler or not, they don’t make allowances. Be on time.”
“Understood,” Thomas said. For the first time, his voice showed signs of fatigue. “Thank you, Agent Wimble.”
“Thank you,” I echoed.
“Good luck,” he said. He nodded to both of us, then climbed into the SUV and left the way he came.
The door of our very temporary quarters swung open, and a woman stepped out in desert-pattern camo pants and a tan duty shirt, posture straight, shoulders squared.
She held both hands behind her back in the way soldiers defaulted to without thinking.
Her hair—dirty blonde despite her clearly Hispanic features—was pulled into a low bun secured beneath her cap.
Dark eyes assessed us in a single sweep.
Early forties, maybe late thirties. Compact.
Strong. A brand of woman who didn’t waste energy announcing authority because it radiated off her, anyway.
The smile she offered was more than we’d seen since arriving, but it was professional, controlled, clearly meant to reassure rather than invite familiarity.
“Good morning, Agent Maddox… Agent Lindy. I’m Staff Sergeant Jonie Ibarra.
This is the staging quarters. Barracks Three, officially.
Most people just call it the Longhouse.”
She turned to enter the building, assuming we’d follow. We did.
Up close, the building looked older than the rest of the compound, its exterior sand-colored and utilitarian, built low to the ground as if it had grown out of the desert.
Inside, the air was significantly warmer, the hum of climate control steady and blessedly quiet.
There were skylights but no windows. The main room stretched long and narrow, lit by recessed ceiling panels that cast an even, neutral glow.
Two rows of bunk beds lined the walls, metal frames bolted to the floor, each bunk outfitted with clean linens folded tight at the foot, small wooden benches at the ends.
Lockers stood between every set, scratched and well-used but sturdy.
At the far end, a partial wall divided the sleeping area from a small common space with a table, four chairs, and a narrow counter holding a coffee maker and an electric kettle.
Everything about it suggested function over comfort but not neglect.
She led us through a side door into the bathroom area. Ten sinks. Ten mirrors. Ten separate shower stalls. Ten toilets, all enclosed behind solid partitions. Clean. Sparse. No frills.
“This isn’t standard barracks,” Ibarra said, gesturing around us. “As you can see, the bathroom offers more privacy than most.”
Stella settled against my shoulder, still asleep and wrapped in her favorite fuzzy blanket, her cheek warm through my jacket.
I was acutely aware of how quiet she was, how small she felt in this place.
She’d wake tomorrow, surrounded by unfamiliar walls and strange sounds, in a place that didn’t know her yet.
The thought lodged beneath my ribs, sharp with the dread that even sleep couldn’t protect her from how abruptly her world had changed.
Ibarra noticed my expression.
“You can put her down in a lower bunk,” she said, nodding toward the nearest set. “The rails lock. She’ll have a proper toddler bed waiting for her once you’re moved to your longer-term housing.”
Thomas didn’t hesitate. He took her from me with care that only came from repetition, not caution, and crossed the room without rushing.
He eased Stella onto the lower bunk, adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, tucked it beneath her chin.
She sighed once, a soft, sleepy sound, and settled without stirring, undisturbed.
Olive lingered near Bodhi, her arm looped through his, fingers curled into the sleeve of his forest-green GMU basketball hoodie, her body angled into his side.
Exhaustion clung to her in a way sleep alone wouldn’t fix, her nose still pink from the desert chill, her eyes vacant, as if she were running on borrowed calm.
Bodhi kept her close, easy and familiar, not exactly shielding her from what lay ahead so much as reminding her she wouldn’t have to face it alone.
Ibarra waited until Thomas returned to my side before continuing. “Your phones are secured with Operations for now.” After quickly checking her watch, she looked up again. “Itinerary. Thomas and Liis, you’re due at Command at zero six hundred. That’s just the two of you.”
Thomas gave a short nod. I absorbed the time, already calculating how little sleep that left us.
“The rest of you are scheduled for orientation at zero nine hundred,” she continued. “Sharp.”
I blinked. “Mid-morning?”
It slipped out before I could stop it. Not disbelief, but surprise.
Ibarra’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. “Commander Lund thought that might be easier on the baby.”
Thomas glanced at me, for less than a second. I felt it, too, the pause between us, the unspoken question.
“Commander Lund?” I asked.
“Commander Naomi Abrams Lund,” Ibarra said. “General Marcel’s daughter.”
Something loosened in my chest. “I’m sorry, I just want to be clear. We were told there wouldn’t be exceptions, even with a toddler.”