SNEAK PEEK TRIDENT’S FURY
Chapter 1
The corpsman's hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Hailey Perkins watched Petty Officer Second Class Danny Reeves grip the edge of her examination table like it might float away, his knuckles white against the padded vinyl.
Twenty-three years old with a baby face that made him look seventeen, combat ribbons on his dress blues that said he'd seen things that aged him forty years on the inside.
"Deep breath, Danny." She kept her voice calm, professional, the same tone that had talked a hundred broken warriors through their first post-injury therapy sessions. "We're just working on range of motion today. No surprises."
His shoulder had taken shrapnel in some African shithole the Navy wouldn't name in his medical records. Six months of healing, three months of her rehabilitation protocol, and he still flinched every time she touched the scar tissue.
But today the flinching had nothing to do with physical pain.
"Doc, I need to tell you something." His voice dropped low, eyes darting to her clinic's front windows like he expected someone to be watching. "Something bad."
Hailey paused, her hands still resting on his shoulder, feeling the tension coiled through every muscle.
Fifteen years treating naval veterans had taught her to recognize the difference between physical trauma and the kind that lived in your head, the kind that made young men look over their shoulders in the safety of a Virginia Beach medical office.
"Whatever it is, we can handle it." She moved around to face him directly, making him meet her eyes. "Talk to me."
Danny swallowed hard, adam's apple bobbing.
"Three nights ago, I was doing extra duty at the warehouse district near the port.
Supply inventory bullshit, you know? I stepped outside for a smoke around twenty-two hundred, and I saw—" He stopped, jaw clenching.
"I saw them execute someone, Doc. Right there in the loading area behind the old processing plant. "
Cold settled into Hailey's stomach. "Saw who execute someone?"
"Victor Castillo's men." The name came out barely above a whisper. "Everyone in Norfolk knows that name. His guys were standing over this body, and one of them—tall guy with prison tats up his neck—he put two more rounds in the guy's head while he was already down. Just to make sure."
"Danny—"
"They saw me." His eyes locked onto hers, desperate and terrified. "I ran, Doc. I fucking ran back inside and hid in the supply cage until my shift ended. But they saw my face. I know they did."
Hailey's mind raced through protocols, through options, through the chain of command that should handle this. "You need to report this to NCIS. Naval Criminal Investigative—"
"I know what NCIS is." Danny stood abruptly, pacing her small examination room like a caged animal.
"I tried. I called their tip line yesterday, left a message.
But Doc, Castillo owns people. Everyone knows he's got cops, got politicians, got half the harbor police in his pocket.
His family's been running this port since before the Navy moved in. "
"All the more reason to report it properly." She kept her voice firm, authoritative, the voice that made injured sailors follow her rehabilitation protocols even when they wanted to quit. "Let the authorities—"
"The tall guy? The one who did the shooting?" Danny stopped pacing, looked at her with those too-old eyes. "I saw him again today. At the 7-Eleven near base housing. He was just standing there, watching me pump gas. Smiling."
The cold in Hailey's stomach spread outward. "Did he approach you?"
"Didn't have to. Message received." Danny grabbed his uniform jacket from the chair, shrugging it on with jerky movements that had nothing to do with his injured shoulder. "I shouldn't have told you. Fuck, I shouldn't have told anyone. I just—I needed someone to know, in case—"
"In case what?"
But Danny was already moving toward the door, that animal panic driving him. "Forget I said anything, Doc. Forget all of it."
"Danny, wait—"
The clinic door slammed behind him before she could finish.
Hailey stood alone in her examination room, surrounded by the anatomical charts and rehabilitation equipment that usually made her feel competent, in control, capable of fixing what the Navy broke.
But this wasn't a torn rotator cuff or PTSD-related chronic pain.
This was a kid who'd survived combat overseas only to witness murder in his hometown, targeted by an organization that had run Norfolk's criminal underworld for three generations.
She should call NCIS herself. Should report what Danny told her, get proper authorities involved, do everything by the book.
But Danny's words echoed in her head: Castillo owns people.
How did you fight someone who owned the people meant to stop him?
Hailey moved to her office window, looking out at the parking lot where Danny's beat-up Honda was already pulling onto the street.
Normal evening in Virginia Beach—traffic heading toward the oceanfront, fighter jets screaming overhead from NAS Oceana, sailors in uniform heading to the dozen bars that catered to military money.
Her clinic sat in a decent area, professional building with good security, close enough to Little Creek to serve the SEAL and amphibious communities.
She'd built this practice from nothing, fought insurance companies and VA bureaucracy to create a space where broken warriors could heal without judgment.
Refused to back down when the system tried to deny care to men who'd given everything.
Her father had been a Marine, died from inadequate veteran care when she was twenty, and she'd spent the last fifteen years making sure no other family lost someone to bureaucratic indifference.
Hailey Perkins didn't run from fights.
But she also wasn't stupid enough to think righteous anger stopped bullets.
Her cell phone rang, unknown number, and her hand hesitated over it for just a second before professional habit made her answer. "Perkins Rehabilitation."
Heavy breathing on the other end. Then a voice, male, rough like gravel scraped over concrete: "Dr. Perkins. You had an interesting conversation with one of our mutual acquaintances today."
Every muscle in her body went rigid. "Who is this?"
"Someone who'd like to remind you that healthcare providers have a duty of confidentiality." The voice carried a smile, casual and threatening. "Whatever your patient might have told you, whatever stories he might have shared—those stay between you and him. Understand?"
"I understand you're threatening a medical professional." She kept her voice steady through sheer force of will. "Which is a crime."
"Crime." The man laughed, low and mean. "That's a strong word.
I prefer 'friendly advice.' Your clinic does good work, Doc.
Real good work helping our veterans. Be a shame if something happened to disrupt that important mission.
Fire codes are tricky in these older buildings. Lot of things could go wrong."
"If you think—"
"I don't think, sweetheart. I know. I know you're going to be smart, going to remember that some things aren't your business, going to focus on fixing shoulders instead of asking questions that could get people hurt.
" The smile dropped from his voice, leaving only cold threat. "Do we understand each other?"
Hailey's free hand gripped the edge of her desk hard enough to hurt. "Crystal clear."
"Good girl."
The line went dead.
She stood there for a long moment, phone still pressed to her ear, fury and fear warring in her chest. Good girl.
Like she was a child to be patted on the head and dismissed.
Like her clinic and her patients and her life's work could be threatened by some criminal organization that thought they owned this city.
Her father's voice echoed from memory: Marines don't retreat, baby girl. We adapt, we overcome, we hold the line.
Hailey pulled up her contacts, found the number for NCIS that she'd saved years ago when treating a sailor involved in a domestic violence case. Started to dial.
Stopped.
What if Danny was right? What if Castillo did own people in law enforcement? What if reporting this just painted a bigger target on her back and got Danny killed for talking?
She needed to think this through. Needed to be smart.
Her clinic's front door chimed—the bell she'd installed to alert her when patients arrived after hours. Hailey moved quickly to her office door, looking out into the reception area.
Empty.
"Hello?" Her voice echoed in the silent space.
No answer.
She walked slowly through the reception area, past the chairs where veterans waited for appointments, past the motivational posters about recovery and resilience. The front door stood slightly ajar, cool evening air drifting in.
She could have sworn she'd locked it after her last patient.
Hailey pushed the door fully open, looking out at the parking lot. Her Subaru sat in its usual spot. A couple of other cars belonging to the physical therapy practice next door. Nothing unusual.
But spray-painted across her clinic's front window, red paint still dripping, were five words that made her blood run cold:
SOME THINGS STAY BURIED
And below that, crude and vicious, a drawing of a tombstone with "RIP DR. PERKINS" scrawled across it.
Hailey stood frozen, staring at the threat literally painted on her business, feeling fury rise up hot and fierce. They'd come to her clinic. Her space. The place she'd built to help people, threatened like it was nothing.
She pulled out her phone, fingers steady now, and took pictures of the vandalism from multiple angles.
Then she called NCIS, left a detailed message about Danny's witness statement and the threats she'd received.
Maybe they were compromised, maybe Castillo had people inside, but she'd be damned if she'd let fear silence her completely.
After she hung up, Hailey stood in the parking lot as the sun set over Virginia Beach, watching fighter jets streak across the darkening sky, and wondered if doing the right thing was about to get her killed.
Her phone buzzed. Text from unknown number: Forget what you know. Last warning.
She deleted it, locked her clinic, and drove home with her eyes checking the rearview mirror every thirty seconds.
Marines didn't retreat.
But they also didn't walk into ambushes unprepared.
Whatever came next, Hailey Perkins would face it with her eyes open and her spine straight. The system might fail veterans, criminals might think they owned this city, but she'd fought bureaucracy and insurance companies for fifteen years.
She could fight this too.
She had to.