Chapter 10
TEN
The rot didn’t hide well.
Dante crouched beside the ravine and turned over a crushed footprint in the mud. Cadet boots. One print deeper than the others. A drag mark behind it.
He snapped a photo, then two more. Rust scraped along the edge of the pipe, the bent chain link torn from a fence that was supposed to be locked.
The runoff stank. Oil. Mold. Blood?
He didn’t stop. He followed the path up the incline, past the half-flooded service tunnel where they’d found her jacket, back toward the gravel lot where a vehicle must’ve idled. No camera coverage, and no patrols logged.
Intentional.
Dante stared at the bare tire grooves on the edge of the embankment. Whoever helped Krueger or looked away knew what they were doing. But they weren’t fast enough. She was still breathing, and that changed everything.
Shannon convulsed in the medevac rig. The medic adjusted the oxygen mask and shouted vitals to the emergency medical tech.
Her BP was falling. Her skin temperature wouldn’t register on the medic’s portable scanner. Her eyes were closed. Mouth slack. Face ghost-white. Purple splotches bloomed across her fingers and lips.
“Thirty seconds out!” the driver called.
At the Academy infirmary, they were ready in posture only.
She was rushed in on a stretcher, soaked, bruised, and unresponsive. Nurses moved quickly but not urgently. An officer read off vitals without emotion.
One of the attending doctors muttered something about exposure. “Possible overreaction. She’s stable.”
“She’s freezing,” the medic snapped. “Her core temp is under 86. She’s postictal. Do you want to write the body bag report yourself?”
The doctor didn’t answer.
They wheeled her into a curtained bay and started passive warming using blankets, warm IVs, and a heated saline flush. But it wasn’t enough. She wasn’t shivering. She was dying.
Above the clouds, Mike Johnson sat rigidly in the back of the Chase Security Gulfstream, eyes locked on nothing. Ford Cox sat across from him. The two men hadn’t spoken since wheels up.
Finally, Ford said, “She’s alive.”
“For now,” Mike replied, voice like cold metal.
Ford didn’t argue. “They’re already calling it a misadventure,” he said instead. “Accidental trauma. Mental instability. Exposure from unsanctioned PT.”
Mike’s jaw flexed. “I want names.”
“You’ll get them.”
Dante walked into the infirmary fifteen minutes after Shannon arrived. He didn’t show ID.
The nurse already knew who he was. “She’s in Bay 4. Still unconscious. No visitors.”
He walked past the line anyway.
She was lying still under gray thermal blankets, a nasal cannula strapped over her face. A saline bag hung from a pole beside her. Her left hand twitched once.
He stayed just outside the curtain, close enough to feel responsible. He wanted to speak. Instead, he stood still and took the weight of it. All of it.
The whup-whup-whup of rotor blades cut through the cloud line like a scalpel. The security helicopter swept low over the tarmac, doors already open, rotors spooling down before the runners even kissed concrete. The Chase Security insignia wasn’t painted; it was etched, understated but unmistakable.
Tim Holland stepped out, black medical case in hand, wind shredding his coat behind him. He didn’t speak to the security detail. He walked through the Academy infirmary’s main doors like he’d been doing it for years.
By the time Dante saw him, Holland was already pulling Shannon’s chart off the wall. The lead attending doctor started to object.
Holland cut him off. “I’m Tim Holland, Clinical Facility Director, Chase Medical DC. This patient is under transfer authority from Chase Medical, initiated by Mike Johnson, COO Chase Security, confirmed by Ford Cox, deputy director, Washington Branch. Cleared by the chief of the Air Force.”
The doctor stiffened. “She’s a cadet…”
“She’s a daughter,” Holland said flatly. “And your hospital hasn’t performed core hypothermia protocols. That makes this a risk I’m not leaving in your hands.”
“You’ll have to clear it with TSgt Olivo, head of Lima Squadron.”
Silently, Dante moved closer.
Holland clocked him with a quick glance, expression unreadable. “Sergeant.”
“Mr. Holland,” Dante said evenly.
“Sergeant Olivo,” Holland returned curtly, “I’m here under direct authorization. I’m taking her.”
Dante looked at Shannon lying pale and motionless under the blanket, eyes sunken and vitals critical. “Understood.”
“She’s being flown to Chase Medical Denver, en route within the hour.”
Dante nodded once. “Have your pilot clear it with base ops.”
Holland was already moving.
Dante’s jaw flexed. He wanted to go but knew he couldn’t. He had to remain in his cover. No handshake. No thank you. No shared knowledge. Just roles.
Shannon was wheeled onto the helicopter fifteen minutes later, strapped and monitored, her breath still coming too shallowly. Oxygen mask on. Heart rate low.
Dante stood beneath the rotor wash as the chopper lifted, arms braced, face blank.
She disappeared into the sky. And he was left with silence.
NORTH TRAINING WING
Cadet Fourth Class Shannon McKenna had vanished. At first, rumors said she was injured, that she’d slipped during morning PT. That she’d wandered into a restricted zone. That she was recovering. Then the details started to fray.
The rumor mill ran quiet. Too quiet.
No one was talking, not even the loud ones. And that was when he knew. She hadn’t just survived—she’d been found. And whoever found her hadn’t buried it.
Krueger turned from the window. He didn’t feel panic. Panic was for cowards and incompetents. But the timeline had changed. Fast.
He opened his footlocker and removed a plain black notebook, one of several, all perfectly numbered, catalogued, dated. He flipped to the most recent page.
Cadet McKenna – Timeline
BCT, Week 1: Saw too much.
Week 2: Friction begins.
Week 3: Documents.
Week 4: Pressure. No break.
Day 24: Intervention. Survived.
He closed the notebook and adjusted his cuffs. If she woke up, she’d talk. And if she talked, someone might finally listen. He needed a new plan. And fast.