Scars of Duty (The Brave Delta Force Division #4)

Chapter 1

Boone

Which tells me everything I need to know.

Calls at this hour aren’t mistakes.

They’re decisions.

I’m already dressed when I answer.

“Grant,” I say.

The voice on the other end is calm. Too calm.

“We have a problem,” the handler says.

I step out onto the balcony. The city is still dark beneath me, lights scattered across the horizon like fallen stars. Somewhere far below, a truck rumbles down an empty street. Morning isn’t here yet.

“You always do,” I reply.

“This one has history.”

That gets my attention.

“Define history.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough to mean someone is choosing their words carefully.

“Sentinel-adjacent,” he says. “Not him. But something he set in motion.”

I close my eyes.

Of course he did.

Sentinel never built operations.

He built ideas.

Systems that learned.

Networks that survived their creators.

“What kind of operation?” I ask.

“Slow-burn,” the handler says. “Quiet. Surgical. Someone’s building a pipeline in northern Montana. Small towns. Church groups. Veteran outreach. Search-and-rescue charities.”

I lean against the railing.

“They’re not kidnapping people?” I ask.

“No.”

“Then what?”

“They’re recruiting them.”

That’s worse.

“Recruiting for what?”

“We don’t know yet. That’s the problem.”

I stare out across the dark skyline.

“We’ve got seven confirmed disappearances,” he continues. “All clean records. People who wouldn’t trip alarms. Former medics. Ex-military logistics. Drone techs. Comms specialists.”

“Support spine,” I murmur.

“Exactly.”

He exhales.

“And once they’re gone, they’re gone. Phones left behind. Bank accounts frozen. No digital noise. Like they walked out of the world.”

A cold weight settles in my chest.

“Who’s running it?”

“We don’t know.”

Of course we don’t.

“But the structure looks familiar,” he continues. “Compartmentalized. Cellular. Trust-based entry.”

I already know what he’s going to say next.

“Same bones as Sentinel’s early recruitment architecture.”

I breathe out slowly.

“So he taught someone how to build a ghost army.”

“Yes.”

I glance back into the apartment where my go-bag waits by the door, already packed like it never stopped expecting this call.

“Where?”

“Montana. Three hours outside Missoula. A town so small it barely exists on maps.”

“Why me?”

Another pause.

“Because the last time we saw a structure like this,” he says quietly, “you were the one who burned it down.”

I almost smile.

“Who’s the analyst?”

Silence.

Then—

“Wren McKay.”

My jaw tightens.

“That’s a mistake.”

“She requested you.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Then she hasn’t changed.”

“No,” he agrees. “Neither have you.”

I end the call and stand there a moment longer, staring at the thin gray line of dawn creeping across the horizon.

Montana.

Sentinel’s shadow.

And the one woman who knows exactly how I think—

and exactly how to break it.

“Damn it, Wren.”

I grab my bag.

Because whatever this is—

It’s already personal.