I sat back down at the bar. The bartender slid a fresh glass of water toward me, hands trembling. “On the house,” he whispered. “For the rest of your life.” I wrapped my fingers around the cold glass. And then my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. I opened it. It was a photograph. A photograph of me. Taken from across the street. Tonight. And underneath it, three words that made my blood run cold: “We found you….”
I freeze. Not physically—but deep in my gut, something hollows out.
The glass in my hand is slick with condensation. My fingers tighten around it until the cold numbs my knuckles.
I read the message again.
“We found you.”
No name. No sender. Just the photo. Grainy. Zoomed from a distance. I recognize the parked pickup in the corner. The bar’s neon glow smeared on wet asphalt.
This was taken minutes ago.
I turn slowly toward the bar window. Nothing but darkness beyond the smeared glass. No shapes. No movement. But I feel it—eyes. Watching. Waiting.
“Everything okay?” the bartender asks.
I look up. His face is tight with concern.
I nod, but the movement is mechanical. My body is already shifting, calculating—just like I used to when we rolled into hostile terrain and the humvee doors locked behind us.
I leave the drink. Slide off the stool.
My boots hit the floor like hammers.
Commander Hatch is still outside, talking to the MPs near the patrol car. I push through the door and stride to him fast.
“Sir,” I say under my breath, “we’ve got a problem.”
He turns, startled by my tone. “Talk to me.”
I show him the phone.
He studies the image. His face hardens.
“Where was this taken?” he asks.
“Outside. Fifteen minutes ago, tops.”
“You recognize the number?”
I shake my head.
“Could be spam, could be worse,” he says.
“It’s worse.”
He doesn’t argue.
“Stay with me,” he says, motioning toward his car. “You’re not going back alone.”
We slide into his unmarked navy sedan. His dashboard hums to life. I feel the heat kick on.
“I need background,” he says, eyes forward.
I hesitate. There are things even Hatch doesn’t know.
“After I left the Navy,” I start, “I did contract work. MedEvac extractions. NGO support. Places the official flag couldn’t go.”
He glances at me. “What kind of places?”
“Libya. Yemen. Sometimes Eastern Ukraine. Places where soldiers wore no uniforms, and names were a liability.”
“Who was the client?”
“Multiple. But one mission… it went sideways. We were sent to retrieve a captured journalist. The group holding him wasn’t listed on any terrorist database.”
I pause. My throat tightens.
“But they were organized. Trained. And angry.”
“What happened?”
“We got the hostage out. But two of their people died. Important ones. Leaders.”
He exhales slowly. “And you think this is retaliation?”
“I know it is.”
Hatch drives in silence for a full minute. Then he takes a hard left.
“We’re not going to your place,” he says.
“I figured.”
We pull into a nondescript lot behind an old VA clinic. He types a code into a keypad. A garage door rises slowly.
“Come on,” he says.
Inside, it’s cold and dim, but secure. Concrete walls. No windows. Only a desk, a couch, and a wall of surveillance monitors.
“I used to bring wounded here when the hospital was full,” he says. “No one knows this entrance still works.”
He locks the steel door behind us.
I sit on the couch. My phone is still in my hand. The screen’s gone black. But my mind keeps flashing that photo.
“They found me,” I whisper.
Hatch paces. “Can you remember the name of the group?”
“They didn’t have one,” I say. “Not publicly. But some of our intel called them ‘The Voiceless.’”
He freezes. “I’ve heard that name.”
I look up sharply. “Where?”
“There was a Pentagon briefing six months ago. Black ops chatter. Unconfirmed sightings in Colombia, then Northern Italy. We thought it was internet myth—like ghost units.”
“They’re real,” I say. “And they hold grudges.”
Hatch pulls out his phone. Dials a number.
“This is Commander Hatch, authorization code Delta-Zero-Niner. I need an active trace on a message ping from this number,” he says, reading it from my screen.
He listens for a moment.
“Priority Alpha. This is a direct threat against a Silver Star combat veteran and former U.S. Navy asset.”
He ends the call. “They’ll trace it. But it might be a dead SIM.”
He tosses the phone on the table.
Then the lights flicker.
Just once.
But it’s enough.
We both freeze.
The monitors on the wall blink. One by one, they fuzz to static.
A second later, the door keypad sparks.
They’re here.
Hatch moves fast—pulls open a drawer, retrieves a Glock and a battered med-kit.
“Do you remember how to shoot?” he asks.
I take the Glock from him. Chamber a round.
“My hands never forgot.”
There’s a crash outside. Metal on pavement. Tires screech.
Then—silence.
We kill the lights. I move to the side wall, behind an old storage shelf. Hatch takes cover behind the desk.
A second ticks by. Then two.
Then the steel door clicks.
Not slams.
Clicks.
Someone’s bypassed the lock.
The door inches open. A sliver of light slices into the room.
A figure steps in. Tall. Hooded. Slow.
I raise the Glock. So does Hatch.
“Don’t,” I say.
The man raises both hands. Empty palms.
“Denise Kowalski?” he says.
The voice is smooth. Calm. With a faint Eastern European lilt.
“Depends on who’s asking.”
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he says.
“Not convincing,” Hatch mutters from behind the desk.
“I’m here to warn you,” the man says.
I keep my gun trained on him. “You sent the photo?”
“No. That wasn’t me. But it means they’re closer than I thought.”
“Who are you?”
He reaches slowly into his coat. Produces a folded paper. Tosses it on the floor between us.
“I worked for the same contractor you did,” he says. “Different division. Different mask. But the same enemies.”
Hatch picks up the paper. Unfolds it.
His face darkens.
“It’s a kill list,” he murmurs. “Twenty names.”
My eyes scan the page. I recognize four.
The fifth name—
My own.
Right in the middle.
Next to it: ‘Locate confirmed. Priority high.’
“Why are you helping me?” I ask.
The man’s jaw clenches. “Because my sister’s name was on the last list. She was a translator. Civilian. She never came back.”
He looks up at me.
“I couldn’t stop them then. But maybe I can now.”
The lights flicker again. Not from power failure.
From a signal.
A jammer.
“They’re coming,” he says. “I bought us maybe ten minutes. I jammed their drones, but not for long.”
I lower my weapon just an inch. “Then we finish this here.”
He nods. “There’s a blacksite bunker 30 miles north. Secure. I have clearance. But we need to move now.”
Hatch stands. “You trust him?”
“No,” I say. “But I trust what I just saw.”
We pile into Hatch’s sedan. The stranger drives. His name is Marek. No last name. Says it’s safer that way.
We take back roads. Rural routes. The kind that get dustier the deeper you go.
For thirty miles, we say nothing.
Until we reach a gate hidden in the pines.
Marek flashes a badge. A light turns green. The gate opens.
Inside, it’s all concrete tunnels and steel doors. A world apart. A world built for silence.
They lead me to a secure room. Monitors. Comms. A cot.
Marek closes the door behind us.
“There’s more,” he says.
He brings up a map. Pins on cities. Faces next to them.
“They’re targeting every former contractor who ran op-critical missions. Most are dead. You’re one of five left.”
“Why now?” I ask.
“Because they finally got funding. Weapons. Access.”
He looks me dead in the eye.
“And they’re not stopping.”
I exhale slowly.
“So we make a list of our own.”
Marek smiles. “Now you’re thinking like them.”
“No,” I say. “I’m thinking like us. Like someone who saves lives.”
I stand. My pulse steady. My mind clear.
For years, I patched up the broken. Now, I’m hunting the ones who break.
“I need gear,” I say. “And the files on the others. We’re going to reach them before they do.”
Marek nods.
“You’re not just a medic anymore, are you?” he says.
“No,” I say, sliding the Glock into a holster. “Now I’m the cure.”
And as the door slides shut behind us, I know something for certain.
They found me.
But I just found them back.
And this time, I’m not the one who’ll be bleeding.
