Dalton
Hampton, Virginia
This is bad.
Townsend said nothing on the phone other than to get my ass to work immediately.
Apparently he heard about the break-in from Lila when she abruptly left work after just getting in.
Whatever brief he had planned for us just got upended because if they called Kyler in too, it’s JSOC not just Air Force.
Which, if they deploy us, will also fuck with the demo schedule. And fuck with my ability to keep Ivy safe. I don’t even know what we’ll do if Kyler and I are both TDY. Especially after this break-in. Once the shock and adrenaline wear off, she’s going to be a wreck.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I tell Ivy, reaching for her once again.
“I’ll be with Lila and Alinna. I’ll be okay,” she responds, wrapping her arms around my waist. She is trying to be strong, she’s done this before. The hushed, urgent phone calls. The abrupt departure. I hate that I also bring that chaos into her life.
I kiss her forehead, then press a lingering one to her lips. “I’ll text you as soon as I can.” Then kiss her once more. When I look up, Kyler is very obviously trying to get my attention without watching me kiss his ex-wife.
I walk away from Ivy toward him. “JSOC?” I ask him
“That’s my guess. So much for leave,” he mutters. He looks over at Ivy, clearly checking in in some telepathic way that only the two of them understand. She nods and offers him a small but reassuring smile. He taps his hand to his heart and nods back to her. Then turns and walks toward the door.
I pull it shut behind us, not that it’ll latch with the busted lock, but I’ll have a locksmith come fix it today and call insurance about the window.
“Will your whole unit be here?” I ask since they’re based out of Fort Bragg about four hours away.
“I’m assuming eventually.”
I reach my still running Wrangler and pause, looking at him. “Are you alright?”
His dark eyes flicker as he meets mine. “Fuck no. Are you?”
I shake my head. “No, but I don’t just mean about the break-in.”
He grabs the back of his neck. “I’m okay about you and Ivy, if that’s what you mean.” He pauses. “I mean, I’m not. But I’ll get there.”
I nod, unsure of what else to say.
“I’ll see you there,” Kyler says walking toward his massive blacked-out truck.
The drive to Langley is a blur.
My Jeep eats up the highway, engine louder than usual because my head won’t shut the hell up. Every few seconds my brain flashes back to shattered glass, Ivy’s mascara streaked down her cheeks, her hands shaking as she clung to me like I was the only solid thing left in the world.
And now I’m leaving her.
Again.
I grip the steering wheel harder, jaw tight.
Focus.
Townsend doesn’t yank everyone in for nothing. And they definitely don't pull Kyler in too unless whatever this is just crossed into joint operational territory.
JSOC means real world.
JSOC means time sensitive.
JSOC means something already went wrong somewhere.
By the time I pull through the security gate at Langley, the base feels different. Townsend is outside the squadron building when I park crooked next to Logan’s truck. There are more vehicles in the parking lot than usual.
“You look like shit,” Wells says as I approach, though his tone lacks its usual bite.
“Been a hell of a morning,” I mutter.
“Let us know what you guys need,” Logan says.
Townsend’s eyes narrow immediately. “Lila filled me in. Ivy okay?”
“She’s safe,” I confirm. “Police picked up the guys.”
“Good,” Townsend says, but his tone tells me his brain is already on the next problem. “Because this one might make that look small.”
Wells lets out a low whistle. “That bad?”
Townsend doesn’t answer. He just jerks his head toward the building.
Inside, the briefing room is already full.
Not just Air Force. Army. Navy. Civilian suits. Badges on belts. Intel types.
Kyler stands near the back of the room, no longer in jeans.
Now it’s all black—full kit, Kevlar, plate carrier, everything stripped of identifiers except a single subdued American flag patch on his shoulder.
Intentional anonymity. The kind that tells you he operates in places where labels can’t exist.
Cipher Unit.
Delta.
Which means this is already kinetic.
A massive digital map dominates the far wall, the Atlantic Ocean glowing in deep blue. Red symbols blink intermittently across a wide grid pattern.
Unidentified tracks.
General Mathers, the Joint Special Operations Command commander, stands at the front of the room, posture rigid, presence heavy enough to quiet even the most senior officers.
Beside him is Colonel Daniels, the task force commander for JSOC, tablet in hand, eyes sharp and shoulders heavy with the things he’s seen.
Townsend takes a seat beside me. “I don’t know much, but I think we’re about to have a very long day,” he mutters.
General Mathers wastes zero time. “Gentlemen, at 0610 EST, NORAD detected a formation of unidentified aerial vehicles approximately six hundred nautical miles east of CONUS. Initial radar signature suggested weather anomalies. That assessment has since changed.”
Colonel Daniels taps the screen and the map zooms in. The red symbols multiply.
“There are currently thirty-two confirmed contacts traveling west-northwest at approximately Mach point eight. Altitude fluctuating between forty-five and fifty-five thousand feet.”
My stomach tightens. That’s high. Higher than most commercial traffic.
“Formation behavior suggests coordinated control,” Daniels continues. “Not atmospheric drift. Not hobbyist drones. Not commercial platforms.”
Logan leans forward slightly. “Range?”
Daniels answers immediately. “Estimated arrival to U.S. airspace in four hours, assuming current speed and heading remain constant.”
Four hours. Holy shit.
A CIA analyst steps forward, placing a folder on the table. “We have moderate confidence attribution links to a paramilitary tech network previously associated with a financier known as Al-Shaheen.”
The room stills.
My eyes find Kyler’s. His jaw tightens.
These fucking guys won’t quit.
South African national. Private military funding pipelines. Black market aerospace tech acquisition.
Too much money. Too little oversight.
And entirely too connected to Ivy.
General Mathers folds his hands behind his back.
“Al-Shaheen has been probing NATO air defenses for almost a decade through proxies. This is the first time they’ve demonstrated long-range autonomous swarm capability.
” Colonel Daniels gestures toward another screen.
Satellite imagery appears. Dark specks against the open ocean.
Infrared signatures flicker. “These drones are not broadcasting transponders. They are operating under emissions control protocols consistent with military doctrine.”
Translation: someone taught them well.
An NSA technical liaison speaks next. “Signal intercept indicates encrypted command relay. We have not yet cracked the control architecture, but it is unlikely these platforms are fully autonomous.”
“So someone is flying them,” Wells states, it’s not a question.
General Mathers nods once. “That is the working assumption.”
“Objective?” It’s Kyler this time and now he’s joined by one other guy in matching gear.
Daniels exhales slowly. “Unknown. But trajectory suggests potential reconnaissance of East Coast military infrastructure…or demonstration of penetration capability.”
Which is a polite way of saying they want us to know they can reach us.
A Navy commander standing near the wall adds, “Aegis cruisers are repositioning, but engagement authority has not yet been granted.”
Mathers turns slightly, eyes scanning the room. “We are operating under the assumption this is a hostile test of U.S. response time.” He looks directly at our section of the room. “Alpha Flight.”
Townsend straightens.
“You are wheels up within the hour.”
My pulse spikes instantly.
The general continues. “F-22 air dominance gives us the best chance to visually identify payload configuration and determine whether these UAVs present an immediate strike threat.”
Logan nods once.
Wells cracks his neck.
Townsend just looks grim.
Colonel Daniels switches slides. “If attribution to Al-Shaheen is confirmed, Cipher Unit will deploy to neutralize command infrastructure.”
I glance at Kyler again. His expression doesn’t change, but I see the shift.
He’s already planning insertion routes. Already ten steps ahead.
CIA presence makes more sense now. So does NSA. Probably NGA feeding satellite imagery in real time.
Mathers’ voice cuts through the room. “We do not yet know whether these platforms are armed. We do not yet know their ultimate target.” He pauses. “But we will.”
He looks directly at Townsend. “Major, scramble Alpha Flight.”
The room explodes into motion. Chairs scrape. Radios crackle. People moving with urgency but not panic.
Townsend turns to us. “Gear up.”
I stand automatically, muscle memory already taking over. Checklist mode. Compartmentalize. Execute.
But Ivy flashes in my mind again.
Her shaking hands.
The broken window.
The way she clung to me like she didn’t want me to disappear.
And now I’m about to climb into a Raptor to intercept an unidentified drone swarm possibly tied to the same group that took Ivy—the ones who tortured her trying to get to Kyler’s unit.
Fuck today.
Logan claps my shoulder as we move toward the exit. “You with us?”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
Because this is the job.
And the cockpit of an F-22 Raptor at fifty thousand feet is not the place to be distracted.
Still…
As I grab my helmet bag, and put on my g-suit, I pull out my phone long enough to send one message.
DALTON: Wheels up soon. Are you okay?
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
IVY: I’m okay. Be safe.
I stare at the words for half a second longer than I should.
Then I shove the phone back into my locker and head for the flight line.
Time to fly.