Chapter 25
The cursor blinks on my laptop screen, the little line taunting me as I struggle to write this article.
It’s been three days since we found the grave.
Three days of sleepless nights, digging through encrypted archives, hacking—and stealing—classified reports, and reading every obscure government record I can access from a tent in the middle of nowhere.
Mattis—miracle-working, caffeine-addicted Mattis—is still with me, even from half a world away.
He hasn’t slept much, either. If at all.
My eyes burn from staring at the bright screen, but I refuse to give up. Not when we are this close. Chris is sitting on the other side of the tent, watching over me and stewing. The tension is radiating off him. He is itching to say something, but whatever it is has him holding his tongue.
I click through another series of digital folders Mattis uploaded, scrolling past troop lists, shipment manifests, and coded internal memos. None of it makes sense until one small, innocuous line catches my attention:
Authorization Order 7072-PD. Signed: Gen. Phillip A. Pollock.
“Mattis,” I anxiously call his name, leaning closer to the screen. “You seeing this?”
His voice comes through the speaker, tinny but sharp. “Already on it, Reese. Give me two minutes.”
Chris crosses the small space in record time, bracing one hand on the back of my chair as he looks over my shoulder at the screen. “What’s that?”
“An authorization order,” I say. “It’s dated two weeks before the village attack. It could be a coincidence, but…”
“Nothing about anything that has happened here has been a coincidence,” he grouses.
The static hum of Mattis’s keyboard clacking fills the tent, followed by a low whistle. “Jesus Christ. Okay. This order links up the chain. Pollock didn’t act alone. There’s a memo attached.”
“Send it.”
A few seconds later, the document appears on my screen.
The letterhead is official. Government seal official.
I read out loud, “Re: Pipeline Protection Directive. Ensure operational silence regarding civilian clearance efforts. Local population to be removed for construction by any and all means necessary. All actions fall under national interest authorization. Signed—’” I stop, my throat tightening and heart racing at the realization of what we’ve just found.
Chris leans over me again. “Signed who?”
I look up at him, my stomach sinking. “Thomas Weller.”
“Thomas Weller?” Chris asks, his tone a mixture of surprise and confusion. “The Senate Majority Leader Thomas Weller?”
“Fuck,” Mattis swears on the other end. “This goes high, guys. Real fucking high.”
I stare at the name on the document, my pulse echoing in my ears.
It’s him. It has to be. Weller isn’t just anyone.
He is one of the senior sponsors of the US pipeline initiative.
A project sold to the locals as a means of creating jobs and economic stability.
In reality, it is a billion-dollar enterprise for the men pumping oil through this country.
Shaking my head, I lean back in my chair. “He sanctioned it,” I whisper. “He covered up the massacre to keep the pipeline clean in the press.”
Chris exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” Mattis cuts in, voice hard. “Every signature, every time stamp checks out. They buried it under layers of top-secret classified clearance, but it’s there.”
“All those people… To make money,” I mutter, disgusted. I close my laptop slowly, determination taking hold. “That’s it. That’s my story.”
“No,” Chris barks, almost immediately.
I blink, turning toward him. “Excuse me?”
He crouches down in front of me, resting his forearms on his knees.
The normal soft golden hue of his eyes looks dark as he stares up at me.
“Reese, baby. You publish that and you’re done.
” His tone is as deadly serious as his unwavering stare.
“You’re not just poking the bear. You’re lying down and offering to be his dinner. You could die for this.”
“Then at least it’ll mean something.”
“Don’t say that,” he snaps, his tone low but sharp.
I meet his gaze, refusing to back down. “You think I can just walk away from this? Pretend we didn’t see what we saw? That those families don’t deserve justice?”
He pushes to his feet as I stand from the chair, nearly knocking him over. “I’m not saying that. I’m saying we can’t do anything about it if you’re dead, Reese. There are ways to get this out safely—”
“Safely?” I let out a humorless laugh. “Do you know what the government is going to do once this hits the press? They’ll deny it, discredit it, and by the time the truth crawls out again, it’ll be buried under a dozen other headlines.
I have to release it myself. Now. Before they can bury the truth. ”
“And you,” Chris mumbles under his breath, not meant for me to hear. He turns back toward me and demands. “At least leave the country first.”
It’s logical. Smart. Smarter than outing a couple of dozen high-ranking men as murderers while I’m sleeping in their camp. “I can’t,” I exhale.
Hawk’s expression tightens, his teeth grinding so tightly that his jaw ticks. “Reese…”
“I need to tell Adeya first.” He lets out a heavy exhale, his frustration dissolving into understanding. “She sent me on this story. She deserves to know what happened to her daughter. Before the story breaks and the corrupt Western media manages to twist it into something it’s not.”
He stares at me for a long moment in silence. I hold my stance, not breaking eye contact with him, because this is not something I have any intention of backing down from. Grumbling, he caves first, “You’re going to be the death of me, baby.”
“Probably,” I chirp at my victory.
“I’ll agree on one condition.” He sighs heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We go. You tell her. Then we’re gone. Out. Clear. I mean it, Reese.”
“I know.”
“I’m not letting you stay in this country another night.”
I nod. “Okay.”
He gives me a skeptical look, like he’s waiting for me to change my mind, then says, “We leave in an hour, and then we’re on a flight tonight.”
By early afternoon, we’re bouncing down a makeshift dirt road in a borrowed Humvee.
It’s hot as hell. Blinding heat is radiating off the sand, blurring the route before us.
The sun is beating down hard through the windshield, and the sad little AC unit can’t keep up with our demand.
Chris drives in silence, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gearshift.
Every time we hit a bump, the muscles in his forearms flex and the veins pop beneath the ink covering them.
I hold my backpack in my lap as we jostle over another bump, holding desperately to Chris’s laptop and every note I have made about this story.
This story and these photos I’ve taken are the things Pulitzers are made of.
I just never realized before what cost they come with.
The lives of all those innocent people. Possibly my life.
But this… this is what I was made for. This is why I became a journalist. The opportunity to share truths with the world that burn bright enough to scorch the lies around them.
My eyes flit between my laptop and Chris as we make our way deeper into the desert, and my thoughts do the same. They bounce back and forth between the story, Chris, the fallout after this is published, and the fallout of leaving this place that has thrust us back together.
“You’re awfully quiet.” Chris breaks the silence and pulls me from my thoughts.
“Just thinking.”
He glances at me. “About the story?”
“Yeah…” I shift slightly in my seat. “About everything.”
He grunts in response with his eyes still focused before us.
“What happens when we leave?” The words tumble from my mouth without a second thought.
The question has been on my mind since we first slept together, and it’s only grown more prominent since I told him that I still love him.
Even if he hasn’t said it back. Part of me thinks it’s why I’m so determined to dig in my feet to finish the story here.
As long as we’re together, he won’t leave me.
He can’t. It’s not in his nature to quit on a job.
But his need to be by my side, I don’t know if that lasts once we get on a plane.
The Humvee slows when Chris stomps heavily on the brakes, dust kicking up around us and swirling in the afternoon light. The engine idles low when he slips it into park. Both of his hands grip the steering wheel, flexing around it as he continues to stare straight ahead through the windshield.
“Chris?” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He slowly exhales it as I repeat, “What happens when we leave?”
He turns his head, and his eyes meet mine, the look in them nearly breaking me before he even utters a word. “That’s the problem, baby,” he says quietly. “I don’t know.”