One of them stopped moving.
Another muttered, “Seriously?”
I lifted the tiara.
The third woman, an Army medic named Harper, stepped toward me.
“Do you want me to get somebody?”
“No.”
“Avery, that's—”
“Who put it here?”
The three of them exchanged glances.
Harper lowered her voice.
“I didn't see.”
“Did anyone?”
“I don't know.”
I turned the plastic crown over between my hands.
Fingerprints wouldn't mean much under ordinary circumstances. Half the room could have touched similar lockers or objects. The tiara itself wasn't what interested me most.
The reaction was.
Harper seemed embarrassed.
Not embarrassed for me.
Embarrassed by the room.
“Does this happen often?” I asked.
She didn't respond.
Her silence answered for her.
I slipped the tiara into my duffel bag.
Harper stared.
“You're keeping it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I pulled the zipper closed.
“Because people should keep the things they're given.”
Confusion passed over her face.
I left the locker room.
That night, I dialed a number I knew by memory.
The person on the other end picked up after a single ring.
“Status?”
“Escalating.”
“How visible?”
“Very.”
“Command response?”
“Minimal.”
“Any intervention?”
“Informal warning from one instructor. Nothing documented.”
A pause followed.
“And Hayes?”
“Not yet.”
“Stay within your cover assignment.”
“I am.”
“You're not there to provoke anything.”
“I know.”
“Mitchell.”
I looked through the barracks window at the dark training field beyond the glass.
“I know.”
Another brief silence.
Then the voice said, “The observers arrive Friday.”
“I know that too.”
I disconnected the call.
On Thursday morning, the hand-to-hand tournament bracket was posted.
The annual competition had always been popular within the advanced joint-training program. This year, with Pentagon representatives attending, command had expanded it into a much larger demonstration.
Thirty-two competitors.
Single elimination.
Protective equipment.
Controlled techniques.
Clearly written rules.
The bracket hung outside the operations building.
A crowd formed around it before breakfast.
I waited until people shifted enough for me to see.
My name was positioned near the bottom.
Ryan Briggs' name appeared on the opposite half.
The only way we could face each other was in the championship.
Someone stepped beside me.
Briggs.
“Well, look at that.”
I kept reading.
He tapped his own name on the bracket.
“Guess we both have some work to do.”
I remained silent.
He leaned closer.
“You make it that far, I promise I'll go easy.”
I turned toward him.
“Why?”
He smiled.
“Wouldn't want people saying I bullied you.”
His friends laughed.
I looked back at the bracket.
There it was again.
That absolute confidence.
That certainty.
He didn't worry about consequences because his experience had taught him that consequences were something that happened to other people.
At lunch, I sat three tables away from him.
Briggs had six men around him.
I wasn't trying to overhear.
He was making certain everyone could.
“After I embarrass her tomorrow,” he said, “she'll be on the first flight back to wherever they pulled her from.”
One younger soldier sitting opposite him shifted uneasily.
“Sergeant, isn't she actually trained?”
Briggs laughed.
“She weighs a hundred thirty pounds.”
The soldier lowered his gaze.
Briggs pointed his fork at him.
“Physics doesn't care about feelings.”
His table laughed.
I took another bite.
Neither does accountability.
That evening, Commander Daniel Hayes stopped me outside the barracks.
I had seen him numerous times since arriving, but we had never spoken alone.
Hayes was in his late forties, lean rather than bulky, with gray beginning to show at his temples. He had completed multiple special operations deployments and carried the sort of reputation that caused rooms to become quieter whenever he entered.
He gestured toward the walkway.
“Walk with me.”
We moved away from the building.
For nearly thirty seconds, he said nothing.
Then he asked, “How are you finding the program?”
“Challenging.”
“That's a diplomatic answer.”
“You asked a broad question.”
He glanced at me.
“I've heard you've had some trouble.”
“Have you?”
“With Briggs.”
I waited.
Hayes lowered his voice.
“If you draw Briggs tomorrow, he'll try to hurt you.”
I looked directly at him.
The certainty of the statement caught my attention.