He looked at the control panel I had just been ‘fixing’ and screamed. The screen didn’t show flight data. It showed a live video feed… from inside his own house…

Brett lunges for the control panel, jabbing at the buttons, but it’s no use—the system’s locked. He’s trapped. The live feed flickers, cycling through rooms in his house. Bedroom. Kitchen. Nursery.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “My family has nothing to do with this.”

“They didn’t,” I say coldly, stepping between him and the Apache. “But you made them part of it the moment you lied on that report.”

I toss a second file at him—this one stamped CLASSIFIED. His name is all over it. Communications logs. Altered coordinates. A final flight plan transmitted to the enemy one hour before Talon’s last mission.

He drops to his knees. “I was just following orders.”

“So was I,” I say. “Until you made sure we never got them.”

His breathing quickens. Sweat beads on his forehead. The video feed freezes on a paused image—his wife, holding their baby girl, laughing in the sunlight.

“I didn’t know they’d all die,” he croaks. “It was supposed to be a scare tactic. Just enough to disband the unit, not… not wipe them out.”

“You sold us out for a promotion,” I hiss. “You knew the plan. You knew we’d be cornered in that ravine.”

Brett’s voice cracks. “They threatened my family. I had no choice!”

“There’s always a choice,” I snap.

I walk to the Apache and flip a switch. The side compartment opens, revealing not weapons—but gear. Not mechanic tools—covert ops tech. A sidearm, a headset, a data stick glowing red.

His eyes widen. “What are you doing?”

I lift the data stick. “This has everything. The orders. The bribes. The recordings. You didn’t just sell us out, Brett. You helped them map three U.S. drone corridors. This isn’t just betrayal. It’s treason.”

“I can explain,” he pleads, crawling toward me.

I kneel down, leveling my gaze with his. “No, Major. You can confess.”

I toss him the headset. He looks at it like it’s a snake, then slowly puts it on. His voice trembles as he speaks into the mic.

“This is Major Brett Callahan… identification number Delta-Niner-Zero-Two. I’m making a full confession under duress regarding Operation Nightfall and the events leading up to the ambush in Samurand…”

I hit record. The red light blinks.

He stammers through every detail—names, dates, accounts offshore. I watch his soul unravel in real-time.

“…and I knowingly altered the coordinates of the Eagle Talon’s extraction point, resulting in the death of thirty-two U.S. operatives,” he finishes, voice barely audible.

Silence.

Then, I walk to the control panel and press the override. The hangar doors groan and slowly open, letting in a flood of cold morning light. Brett stays on the floor, sobbing.

But I’m not done.

“I’ve already sent this confession to Command,” I say. “But I wanted you to say it. I wanted you to look me in the eye while you did.”

He doesn’t respond. Just curls into himself like a worm under salt.

I walk over, unholster the sidearm from the Apache, and eject the magazine. I drop it beside him.

“That’s not a threat,” I say. “It’s a choice. Make the right one. For once.”

Then I turn and walk out of the hangar.

Outside, two MPs jog toward me, their expressions confused but alert. I hand them my ID.

“Colonel Marina Locke,” I say clearly. “Requesting immediate transfer of prisoner Major Brett Callahan. He just confessed to treason.”

The taller MP raises an eyebrow. “You got proof?”

I hold up the drive. “It’s all on here. You’ll want to secure him fast. He’s not suicidal—yet.”

They sprint past me, radios blaring.

I stand there for a moment, breathing in the sharp air, watching the sun rise over Base Sentinel.

For two years I’ve been scrubbing rotors and replacing fuel lines, waiting. Watching. Letting them think I was gone.

But I was never gone.

I was rebuilding.

A shadow falls across the tarmac. I turn.

Commander Elise Hart is walking toward me. Her eyes are sharp, and she holds an envelope in one hand.

“I wondered when you’d make your move,” she says. “Took you long enough.”

“Had to wait for him to feel safe,” I say. “Vultures always come back when the buzzards leave.”

She nods. “You ready for what comes next?”

I glance back at the hangar. Brett is being dragged out, cuffed and wailing, his voice swallowed by the sound of approaching Blackhawks.

“I’ve been ready since Samurand,” I say.

She hands me the envelope. “Then it’s official. Reactivation orders. You’re no longer a mechanic.”

I tear it open and scan the letter. Top clearance. Mission command. Operation Recoil.

“Where’s the team?” I ask.

Her smile is faint. “Waiting at Airfield Bravo. You’re the last piece.”

I nod, slip the envelope into my jacket, and follow her toward the Humvee.

As we pull away, I catch a glimpse of the hangar one last time. The place where ghosts haunted me. Where revenge and justice finally met.

But I don’t feel triumphant.

I feel clean.

Because justice isn’t loud. It’s not explosions or fists or shootouts.

It’s the silence after the truth is spoken.

It’s a man in cuffs, whispering apologies too late.

And it’s a woman who once burned in the wreckage of betrayal… now rising in the quiet hum of a new mission.

As the Humvee kicks up dust, I don’t look back again.

I’ve already buried the past.

Now, I’m flying straight into the storm.