The words hit Vance like a physical blow to the stomach. His grip on her uniform loosened for a fraction of a second, his eyes flashing with a sudden, violent confusion.
Iron Mike. It was a private joke. A nickname Tyler had used only when they were alone, mocking Vance’s rigid, inflexible demeanor around the house. It was not in the official records. It was not something a random clerk would know.
“Shut your mouth,” Vance whispered, though the certainty had vanished from his tone. His hands were shaking visibly now.
“He said you preferred your coffee black, but when nobody was looking, you’d put three packets of sugar in it,” Rostova continued, her dark eyes drilling into his. “He said you taught him how to shoot a rifle before he could ride a bike.”
“Stop it,” Vance hissed, releasing her uniform completely and taking a staggering step backward. He looked down at the tag in his hand, then back up at her, his face twisting with a toxic mixture of fury and desperate denial. “You read his letters. You hacked his emails. You’re a sick, twisted little girl trying to play games with a Gold Star father.”
Rostova finally reached up, using the back of her wrist to wipe the blood from her mouth. She looked at the red smear on her skin, then lowered her arm back to her side.
“I was there, Sergeant Major,” she said.
“No, you weren't,” Vance shot back, his voice rising in panic. “The after-action report was clear. His platoon was isolated. The medevac didn't get there in time. You weren't there.”
“The official report was sanitized,” Rostova said calmly.
The squad behind Vance exchanged nervous, terrified glances. Nobody dared to speak. They were watching a highly decorated senior non-commissioned officer unravel in real time, and they were watching a junior specialist meticulously pull the thread.
Vance’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped beneath his skin. He couldn't process what was happening. His reality, the neat, tragic box he had placed his son's death into, was suddenly cracking open, and he was terrified of what might spill out. He needed control. He needed his authority back.
“You’re done,” Vance said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, serrated growl. He shoved the dog tag into his breast pocket and buttoned it securely. “You are done in my Army, Rostova. Striking a superior. Insubordination. Theft of military property. You are going to Leavenworth.”
He turned sharply on his heel, pointing at Sergeant Miller. “Miller! Take the squad outside for PT. Run them until they puke. Nobody talks about this. Understood?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major,” Miller said, his eyes flicking briefly, sympathetically, toward Rostova.
Vance turned back to Rostova. “You. With me. We are going straight to the Commander’s office. You want to tell fairy tales? You can tell them to Captain Hayes while he signs your court-martial papers.”
“Lead the way, Sergeant Major,” Rostova said, her tone utterly devoid of fear.
Vance sneered, disgusted by her lack of panic. He marched toward the heavy steel doors of the barracks, expecting her to follow like a condemned prisoner.
Rostova didn't hesitate. She stepped into his wake, her stride measured and calm. As she walked, her hand slipped subtly into the deep cargo pocket of her trousers. Her fingers brushed against the worn, stiff edge of a small leather notebook.
It was wrapped in a plastic evidence bag to preserve what was left of it. To preserve the dark, rusted stains that covered the back cover.