Chapter 10
HRASK
The order comes down the way they always do.
Clean. Simple. Final.
“Stand down, Vardo.”
The command officer doesn’t bother dressing it up, doesn’t pretend it’s anything other than what it is. His voice carries across the briefing space with that clipped authority that doesn’t leave room for interpretation, and the moment the words land, I already know exactly what’s coming next.
“Cease any independent inquiry into the border incident,” he continues, his eyes locking onto mine like he’s expecting pushback. “You are to maintain standard patrol operations only. No deviations. No additional contact.”
I lean back slightly where I stand, rolling one shoulder as if the words don’t weigh anything.
“Sounds boring,” I say.
“It’s not a suggestion.”
“Yeah,” I reply, letting a faint grin tug at my mouth. “You said that part already.”
A few of the others in the room shift uncomfortably, their attention sliding anywhere but here. Nobody wants to be in the middle of this, not when the tone has already gone tight enough to cut.
“You’ve been flagged,” the officer says, his voice lowering. “Your movements, your interactions. You’re drawing attention.”
“From who?” I ask, tilting my head slightly. “You?”
“From people above both of us,” he snaps.
That lands closer to the truth than he probably intended.
“Then maybe they should’ve picked someone else for this assignment,” I reply.
“They picked you because you’re effective,” he says. “Don’t make that a mistake.”
I hold his gaze for a second longer, then give a small nod, like I’m agreeing.
“Sure,” I say. “Standard patrol.”
“Good,” he says. “Because if I see you stepping outside that again—”
“You won’t,” I cut in.
That ends it.
Not because he believes me.
Because there’s nothing else he can say that would matter.
I turn and walk out before he can try.
The corridor outside the briefing room feels tighter than usual, the air heavier, like the walls themselves are listening now. The scent of oil and recycled filtration clings to everything, pressing into my lungs with every breath.
Stand down.
Stop asking questions.
Stop looking where you’re not supposed to look.
I huff a quiet breath through my nose, the sound rough and low.
Yeah.
That’s not happening.
—
By the time I make it back to the border, the heat has settled in again, thick and dry, dragging at the back of my throat like it’s trying to strip something out of me. The fence hums steady, unchanged, but everything else feels sharper now, more defined.
She’s already there.
Of course she is.
Jolie stands at her post, posture locked, eyes scanning the line, but I can see the difference now. The tension sits deeper, more controlled, like it’s been packed down into something harder instead of burning out.
She’s not letting it go.
Good.
Because neither am I.
I step up to the fence without waiting, closing the distance in a way that’s more direct than usual.
“They shut me down,” I say.
Her gaze snaps to mine immediately.
“That was fast,” she replies.
“Didn’t even pretend otherwise,” I add.
She studies me, something sharp flickering behind her eyes.
“Same on our side,” she says. “Command’s already locked the report. Accidental. Case closed.”
“Of course it is.”
Silence stretches for a second, heavy with everything neither of us is willing to accept.
“You’re still here,” she says.
“So are you.”
“That wasn’t the point.”
“It kind of was.”
She tenses, her attention locking onto me in a way that feels more focused than anything we’ve had before.
“They’re burying it,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “They are.”
“And you’re just… what?” she asks, her tone sharpening. “Going to follow orders?”
I let out a low breath, something closer to a laugh than I intend.
“You think I’m that easy to control?” I ask.
“I think you understand how bad this could get,” she shoots back.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
“Then act like it.”
That lands harder than it should.
I step closer to the fence.
“You want me to act like it?” I ask, my voice dropping. “Fine. This isn’t just a missing soldier anymore. This is coordinated, controlled, and buried from both sides.”
“I know that,” she snaps.
“Do you?” I push. “Because if you do, then you know this doesn’t stop at us getting answers. This escalates. Fast.”
Her eyes narrow, her posture tightening.
“Good,” she says. “Maybe it should.”
I stare at her for a second, trying to decide if she actually believes that.
“You don’t mean that,” I say.
“I do.”
“No,” I reply, shaking my head slightly. “You mean you want the truth. That’s not the same thing.”
“Don’t tell me what I mean,” she fires back.
“Then tell me I’m wrong,” I say, holding her gaze.
She doesn’t answer right away.
That’s all I need.
“This blows open,” I continue, my voice steady, controlled, “and it’s not just command getting involved. It’s both sides. Military, political, everything layered on top of it.”
“And?” she asks.
“And people start disappearing faster,” I say. “Not slower.”
She doesn’t back down.
“They already are,” she says.
“Yeah,” I agree. “And you want to give them a reason to do it more openly?”
“I want to stop it,” she snaps.
“And you think charging straight at it does that?” I counter.
“I think doing nothing guarantees it doesn’t,” she says.
That lands.
Hard.
Because she’s not wrong.
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand across the back of my neck as I look away for a second, the tension pulling tight through my shoulders.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” I say, quieter now.
She lets out a short breath, something almost like a laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“Funny,” she says. “I was thinking the same about you.”
“That’s not a joke.”
“Neither was that.”
I look back at her, really look this time, taking in the set of her jaw, the way her hands have curled slightly at her sides, the way she’s holding everything in place instead of letting it show.
“You don’t walk away from things,” I say.
“Neither do you.”
“That’s different.”
“How?” she demands.
I hesitate, then shake my head slightly.
“Because I know when something’s bigger than me,” I say.
“And I don’t?” she shoots back.
“I think you don’t care,” I reply.
Her eyes flash.
“That’s not even close,” she says.
“Then what is it?” I ask. “Because this—” I gesture toward the fence, the line, everything beyond it—“this isn’t just about him anymore.”
Her expression tightens, something raw flickering there before she locks it down again.
“It never was,” she says.
“Then why are you pushing this hard?” I press.
“Because they killed him,” she snaps, the words sharper now, cutting through everything else. “And they think they can write it off like it didn’t matter.”
“That’s not new,” I say.
“That doesn’t make it acceptable,” she fires back.
“No,” I agree. “It doesn’t.”
Silence settles between us again, heavier this time, carrying everything we’re not saying out loud.
“You think I don’t see the risk?” she says finally, her voice quieter but no less intense. “You think I don’t know what happens if this gets out of control?”
“I think you don’t care if it does,” I reply.
She takes a step closer, the space between us tightening.
“I care,” she says, her voice low. “I just care more about stopping it than protecting myself from it.”
That lands.
Deeper than anything else she’s said.
I hold her gaze, something shifting in my chest that I don’t bother trying to name.
“That’s not how this works,” I say.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” she replies.
I let out a breath, slower this time, the tension pulling tight and then settling into something else.
“You’re not wrong,” I admit.
Her expression shifts slightly, like she didn’t expect that.
“But you’re not entirely right either,” I add.
“Then fix it,” she says.
I tilt my head slightly.
“Fix what?”
“The part where we both know something’s wrong and everyone else is pretending it isn’t,” she says.
I watch her for a long moment, weighing it, turning it over.
“They told me to stand down,” I say.
“They told me the same thing,” she replies.
“And you’re ignoring it.”
“Yes.”
I let a faint grin pull at my mouth.
“Yeah,” I say. “So am I.”
Her shoulders ease just a fraction, the tension shifting.
“That’s not a plan,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
“Then we need one.”
“We do,” I say.
She studies me, something steadier settling into place behind the intensity.
“This stays off record,” she says. “No reports. No patterns they can track.”
“Agreed.”
“We verify everything.”
“Obviously.”
“We don’t get sloppy.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“You’re still talking to me.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She holds my gaze for another second, then nods once.
“Then we do this right,” she says.
I nod back.
“Together,” I add.
She doesn’t hesitate this time.
“Together,” she says.
The word sits between us, heavier than anything we’ve said so far.
Because this—
This changes everything.
The fence hums steady, the line still there, still dividing us.
But it doesn’t feel like a barrier anymore.
It feels like a problem we’re about to break.