I only know that I’ve traveled far and alone
because no one is willing to travel at my side.
At least not for long.

The shadows grow deep as the sun sets low.
The temperature plummets, and the air grows cold.

The sun of midday is burning and bright,
its rays bearing relentlessly down from on high.

The night’s cold ground, or the day’s sandy grit?
The snakes and scorpions?
The flies and the ticks?

The unbearable loads over treacherous terrain?
The grinding of gears?
The hurt and the pain?

The load’s too much to handle
for too far or too long.

It must be passed on,
and sometimes carried alone.

What if it were reversed?

What if it were your terror, your tears?
What if you were the weaker one?

Would you fight?
Would you stand against injustice?
Or would you cower in fear, begging for mercy?

The first to beg for mercy is often the least willing to grant it.
Yet the one most willing to grant mercy is often the one who has received the least.

You took from me,
and you took,
and you took some more.

You kept taking,
always demanding more.

I gave you everything I had
until there was nothing left.

Still, you weren’t satisfied.
You blamed me.

So you walked out the door,
saying you wanted to be free.

I think you thought
I’d beg you to stay,
or at least try to slow you down.

But I couldn’t wait
to get you out of my house.

You expected me to die here alone.

Instead,
I found a peace I’d never known.

Now you tell me
you made a mistake
and you want to come home.

You’re lonely now.

So let me remind you:

It was your idea
to leave me
when I needed you most.

And for that,

I want to thank you.

Because the greatest gift
you ever gave me

was peace.

The change in pressure may be real,
but the pain and suffering
that result from it?
That comes from inside.

The thunder and lightning may be heard
and may be seen,
but the fear they invoke
is an ancient human one.

The storms travel for miles,
striking without favoritism or prejudice.
They show mercy to no man.
They care not in the least.

Storms of this world do not care
who you are,
where you are from,
or whether you are a good person.

The storms do not care
if you are tough enough to handle them,
afraid of them,
or walk through them as though you have no fear at all.

The storms will come no matter what.
The only thing we can do
is focus on how we conduct ourselves
when we face them.

The storm is not the enemy.
The storm is the revealer.

And suddenly ,in the blink of an eye

We were no longer strangers, we were friends

We shared our time, our thoughts, our dreams

And suddenly, in the blink of an eye

We were more than friends, we were lovers

Times got tough, each of us felt more and more alone

And suddenly, in the blink of an eye

We were no longer lovers, we were no longer friends but we were no longer strangers.

suddenly, in the blink of an eye

We had become something awkward. Something ugly.

We had become the very thing we had sworn we would never be

In the blink of an eye

With the dissolution of the task force, Cecil had been reassigned back to homicide. As a senior detective supervising multiple detectives and cases, he had some flexibility in his schedule.

He used this to dig into some of the shell companies connected to Broadway House and the Colonel, but he was getting nowhere.

His phone rang.

“This is Cecil.”

“Cecil. Greg Wolf,” the voice replied.

Cecil grinned. “The Wolf! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I need to pick your brain,” Wolf said. “I’ve got a guy down here. A tweaker. He’s been locked up a half dozen times — I’ve busted him twice. Anyway, he’s desperate not to go back. Says the Aryans have it out for him. He says there’s something going on in a church in New Mexico. Heavy hitters. Contractors. And he says it has something to do with Tulsa.”

Cecil squinted. “Really?”

Wolf grunted. “Hm. I thought if anyone would know, it would be you.”

Cecil replied, “You know, man… I just might.”

---

In a safe house near Park Hill outside of Tahlequah,

Dr. Cheyenne Greenfeather finished examining Trent while Katy stood outside the bedroom.

Cheyenne stepped out and motioned for Katy to join her in the next room.

“He has a bad concussion and partial amnesia. I don’t think he has a skull fracture, but without a CT scan I can’t be sure. I’m assuming this is off the books?”

Katy nodded. “I can’t take him to a hospital. It’s not safe. I’ve heard from informants that there are men searching the shelters and camps for him now. The hospitals will be next on their list.”

“Okay. I can give him something to keep him sedated and help with the pain. I’ll check in on him each day. Do you have someone to help take care of him?”

Katy shook her head, panic rising in her face.

“It’s okay,” Cheyenne said gently. “I know a couple of girls from the clinic who need extra money. They can take shifts staying with him. I’m guessing you’re going after whoever did this?”

Katy didn’t answer. She only stared at her.

A knock at the front door.

Cecil.

“How is he?”

“Stable,” Katy answered. “But we don’t know how much of his memory he’s lost.”

Cecil stared blankly for a moment. “At least he remembers you.”

“Look,” he added, reaching into his pocket. “I may have something here.”

He handed her a white business card with simple black text:

Greg Wolf

Federal Tribal Marshal — Southwest

On the back, in blue ink, was a cell number.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“He’s an old friend. I think he may have a lead on your man. He’s old school. You may not like him at first, but you can trust him. He has the jurisdiction to go wherever this thing takes you. People used to say, ‘If you need to find someone, call the Wolf.’”

“Give him a call.”

---

Early morning.

Pastor Joseph sat in his old Ford pickup outside the Red Mesa County Sheriff’s Office. Dust blew across the dirt parking lot. He rolled up the passenger window to keep it out.

He gripped his Bible with both hands and prayed, eyes squeezed shut so tight they watered — or maybe they were tears. He wasn’t sure anymore.

“Lord, please give me the strength to make this right. I can’t go on like this any longer. Lord, I ask for strength.”

He gathered himself slowly, dried his face, straightened his shirt and jacket. Then he stepped out of the truck and walked tall through the front doors, Bible held tight.

Inside, a couple of deputies milled about while a receptionist worked the phones.

“Can I help you?” a deputy asked.

Joseph swallowed. “I… I need to see the sheriff, if possible, please.”

---

In a small café in Durant, Oklahoma, Katy sipped coffee and watched people come and go. Everyone who entered she sized up, wondering if this might be Greg Wolf.

When he walked in, she knew instantly.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Solid like an NFL linebacker. Dark-skinned, hammer-fisted, hair trimmed close and graying at the temples. His eyes were the eyes of a predator. Boots. Jeans. Tight T-shirt. Gun and badge on his belt.

There was no denying it — he was the Wolf.

She raised a hand. He nodded and came over.

“Greg Wolf.”

“Hello, Marshal Wolf. I’m Katy Ashby.”

“Just call me Wolf. Everyone does.”

Katy nodded. “Okay. Wolf.”

After steak and eggs — the man had been on the road six hours — they got down to business.

“Cecil said you have a line on something going on in a church in New Mexico. Possible contractors. Possible trafficking?” she asked.

Wolf nodded. “Looks like it. He said you might be able to shed some light on it.”

Katy’s eyes darted around the café. She still wasn’t sure if she could trust him.

Wolf met her gaze — dark eyes, almost black, like they could see right through her.

“Why don’t you just show me what you came here to show me?”

Katy nodded and slowly slid a file across the table.

“I was supposed to turn this in when I was suspended.”

Wolf flipped through the files on Robert Kruger — The Colonel.

Katy watched his eyes move quickly across the pages. File to file. Then up to her.

“Why didn’t you turn this in?” he asked.

“Because I think they’re trying to bury it. And I want justice for those girls.”

“Bad enough to bet your career on it?”

Katy nodded firmly. “Yes.”

Wolf pulled one of his business cards and wrote an address near Wichita Falls, Texas, on the back.

“Memorize this, then destroy it. Buy a map. Don’t use GPS. Meet me at this address on Friday. Do you have access to an older vehicle without GPS?”

“Yes. My dad’s old Dodge. A ’94.”

“Good,” Wolf said. “Drive it.”

“We should be there maybe three days. Then we’ll head out. Tell no one. Not even Cecil.”

Katy frowned. “Three days? Why? What are we going to do there for three days?”

Wolf’s eyes narrowed.

“I know you’re tough. I know you can fight. I know you can shoot. But I’m not going hunting with you until I know we can work as a team.”

“Friday morning. 09:00. Bring all your tactical gear and weapons.”

---

Red Mesa Sheriff’s Office — New Mexico

Sheriff Terry Reed sat across from Pastor Joseph Brown. Reed was tall, thick, with close-cropped hair — every inch the lifelong lawman.

“Pastor, I want to commend you for your bravery. It took a lot to come in and tell us this. I want to assure you we’ll do everything in our power to investigate.”

He picked up his phone. “Can you send Deputy Harris in here?”

A tall, slender deputy appeared at the door.

“You asked for me, sir?”

“Yes,” the sheriff replied. “You, me, and the pastor are going to take a ride and check out some things going on at Four Corners.”

The sheriff and deputy exchanged a glance — a long, heavy pause. Joseph felt something shift in his stomach.

“Yes, sir,” the deputy said. “Right this way, Pastor.”

---

The sheriff insisted they all ride in the squad car. The deputy drove. The sheriff rode shotgun. Joseph sat in the back.

They rolled down dusty New Mexico roads in near silence.

The cruiser eventually merged onto I-40 heading east toward Four Corners Missionary Church, red cliffs and stone mesas rising around them.

Something wasn’t right. Joseph could feel it crawling under his skin.

His suspicion was confirmed when they blew past the church’s turnoff.

“Where… where are we going?” Joseph whispered.

The sheriff slowly turned his head.

“This is your lucky day, Pastor,” he said quietly.

“You get to meet Jesus today.”

At a conference table in the back of the church, the Colonel disassembled his Browning Hi-Power and laid each piece carefully on a silicon gun cloth.

A single light bulb hung above him as he worked. The smell of gun solvent filled the air—sharp, metallic, familiar. He closed his eyes and drew a slow breath, letting it ground him.

Methodically, he cleaned and inspected each part, then coated it with a thin sheen of oil. The ritual was muscle memory by now—something he could do blindfolded.

The phone rang. Lioness.

“Colonel, I’ve been running traffic cams on Admiral Drive around the time of the explosion. I caught a still of the jeep when it blew. Brooner can be seen rolling clear.”

The Colonel exhaled, a faint sigh.

“And something else,” she continued. “Social-media chatter about a homeless veteran downtown who fits his description—beat down some thugs, saved a woman and her daughter. Sounds like your boy’s still out there.”

“Wallace has the case closed and the task force on you shut down,” she warned. “I don’t have to tell you what happens if he surfaces.”

The Colonel sat stone-faced, his cold blue eyes betraying nothing.
“Send me everything you have. I’ll dispatch Patch and Ram to Tulsa.”

“Roger that, Colonel. Sending now. Out.”

He reassembled the Browning, slid it into its place inside the faded map case, and closed the flap. His hand lingered on the worn green-and-yellow coat of arms stitched into the leather—a relic of a country that no longer existed.


1979 — Selous Cadets Academy

Cadet Robbie Kruger had been drilling alone in the courtyard long after the others quit. While they played cards and smoked behind the barracks, he stayed under the sun until dusk, rifle and bayonet gleaming with dust and sweat.

When he finally stumbled back inside, exhausted and covered in grime, something was wrong. The usual chatter was gone. No card games, no dominoes—every cadet was crowded around his bunk.

Nick Dane sat on his locker, reading Robbie’s letter from Elise aloud.

Rage flared hot in Robbie’s chest. He ripped the letter from Nick’s hands. He wanted to hit him so badly it hurt, but he knew the price for fighting.

Nick only grinned. “Stay the hell out of my kit, mate.”

Robbie’s face burned. “What do you think a girl like that would ever want with the likes of you, ghost?” Nick sneered. “That’s all you are—the ghost of Jack Kruger in uniform. You think she’s going to wait for a ghost?”

Laughter rippled through the circle of boys.

“What’s all that racket!?” roared Drill Sgt Havelock from the doorway. “I’ll have you lot scrubbing latrines till dawn if you don’t clear out!”

He scanned the barracks. “Since you’re all so full of energy, gather your kit—we’re going on a march. Two minutes!”


That week, when the two schools shared chapel, Elise slipped quietly toward the back. A few minutes later Robbie followed.

“I’ve got it arranged,” she whispered. “At the Joint Literary Exchange next week—during the intermission—we’ll slip away. Find a closet or someplace we can be alone.”

Robbie hesitated. “I want to, Elise. Badly. But Nick Dane and a few of the others know about us. They could turn us in.”

She kissed his cheek, her voice soft and sure. “They wouldn’t dare. My father would have them expelled. Don’t worry, my love.”

She hurried back to her seat. Neither of them noticed Nick Dane watching from the half-lit hallway.


Riverside Park Homeless Camp — Tulsa, Oklahoma (Present Day)

Mid-day sunlight cut through the chill of late fall as Patch and Ram moved among the tents and cardboard shelters, showing Trent’s photo to anyone who would look.

They spotted a volunteer handing out sandwiches and water. Patch—shorter, red-bearded, and the friendlier of the two—stepped forward.

“Hey there. Name’s Mike. You out here often?”

“Tom Williams,” the man replied. “Catholic Church volunteer. Two, three days a week. How can I help?”

Patch showed him the photo. “Looking for a buddy we served with. His family needs him home. You seen anyone like this?”

Tom studied the picture, then shook his head.

“Well,” Patch tried again, “you hear about a veteran saving a woman and her kid? Any story like that?”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Funny—you’re the second to ask. Two cops came by yesterday, same question.”

“Cops?” Patch asked. “Who were they?”

“Those ones from TV—the ones who busted that city councilman. I told them what I told you: just heard the rumor. Happened down by the Katy. That’s all I know.”

Patch and Ram exchanged a glance. “Appreciate it.”


“Trent? Trent, is that you?”

Katy and Cecil had searched every shelter and camp in Tulsa for days. They were about to give up when, on their third pass down the Katy Trail, she spotted a familiar figure.

His clothes were torn and singed, a bloody bandage wrapped around his head.

Trent turned slowly, confused. “I know you,” he said. “You’re Katy.”

She rushed forward and threw her arms around him. “Thank God. You’re alive. Where have you been?”

“I… I’m not sure. I don’t remember.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “We have to get you out of here. It’s not safe.”

Pulling out her phone, she called Cecil. “I’ve got him.”


Joint Literary Exchange — Selous Cadets Academy 1979

The Literary Exchange turned out to be the event of the season. Dignitaries filled the hall, and Elise’s father—Sir Alastair Vanderpool—presided as guest of honor.

Robbie was uneasy. He knew the risk, but Elise’s confidence disarmed him. She insisted her father’s influence could smooth over anything.

He finally gave in. During the receiving line, he slipped her a note with a handshake: Janitor’s closet. South hallway.

Sir Alastair opened with a sermon on patriotism and loyalty in an age of conflict. The schools traded their best compositions, and Robbie sat rigid in his seat, stealing glances at Elise. Each time he did, Nick Dane caught his eye and smirked—You’re a ghost. What would she want with you?

At last the Commandant rose. “We’ll break for twenty minutes before the panel resumes. Refreshments are on the terrace.”

As the brass band began to play, the guests filed outside into the heat of the afternoon. Robbie watched Elise slip through the side door and followed a moment later.

Nick Dane watched them both—and smiled.

He waited five minutes, lifted a Polaroid camera from the press table, and flung the closet door open. The flash popped.

“Got you, ghost!” he shouted, laughing as he bolted down the hall.

Elise’s face drained of color. “My father cannot see that. Robbie, you must do something!”

“I’ll— I’ll f-fix this,” he stammered.

She pushed him away and ran, straightening her blouse as she fled. Robbie adjusted his uniform and went looking for Dane.

When the session resumed, Elise’s seat was empty. So were Sir Alastair’s and the Commandant’s.

Before Robbie could sit, Drill Sgt Havelock appeared, gripping his arm. “Your presence is requested in the Commandant’s office.”

The walk down the hall felt endless. A stone formed in Robbie’s stomach.

Inside, Sir Alastair stood beside the Commandant. Elise sat in a chair, tears streaking her face.

“Cadet Kruger,” the Commandant barked. “This girl says you forced her into a closet and assaulted her.”

I watched the last breaths struggle to escape,

until they grew fewer, thinner,

and then no more.

I try to understand, as they leave,

where they go.

Later, I feel a sleeping baby’s breath

warm against my neck,

a perfect, tiny rhythm.

The wolf sleeps at my side,

her breath steady against my hand.

And I wonder why we cannot see

what is so plainly there.

Each breath is sacred,

not only the first,

not only the last.

In a homeless camp in a rough area just off the paved Katy Trail near Gilcrease Road in downtown Tulsa, a young woman and her daughter make camp for the evening.

The woman, in her mid-twenties, is scared and alone except for the six-year-old child beside her. Both carry everything they now own on their backs.

It’s their first night on the streets, and it shows. It doesn’t take long before they’re spotted by predators. Two men in ragged clothes, unkempt hair, and beards share a crack pipe and a bottle in a brown paper bag. The taller one nudges the other and points. The shorter, with a round beer gut, smiles and nods. They watch for a few minutes, then amble over.

“You must be new here,” the tall one sneers.

The woman only nods.

“Then you probably don’t know about the rent,” he chuckles, glancing at beer-gut.
The two laugh.

“See, there’s rent on this spot. Can you pay rent?”

The woman slowly shakes her head, never making eye contact.

“Well, that’s a problem. But maybe we can work something out. You just have that little girl of yours close her eyes real tight, and we’ll get this taken care of.”

The tall man grins wide as he grabs her arm and starts pulling her away.
Beer-gut grabs the girl by the shoulders and sits her down against the fence.

The girl yells for her mother. The woman screams, and the tall man jerks her by the hair, pulling her ear close to his mouth.

“If you want the sweet little girl to be safe, you’ll do what I sa—”

An arm wraps around the tall man’s throat. His hand releases her hair. He’s lifted off the ground; another arm snakes behind his head. The woman watches as consciousness drains from his eyes—his face goes slack. Then he starts snoring. He actually starts snoring.

The stranger drops him to the ground and turns to beer-gut.

Beer-gut pulls a knife. “Back off, you ba—”

The stranger slams into him with his forearms over his head like a battering ram, bouncing him off the chain-link fence. His left hand controls the knife wrist; his right hand finds an underhook and throws him with a hip toss. The stranger drops a knee on his belly and wrist-locks the hand holding the knife, breaking the wrist and freeing the blade.

As the stranger stands and tosses the knife away, the tall man starts to stir.
The stranger points. “Get your friend and get the hell out of here before you get hurt.”

He watches them go, then turns to the woman.
“Are you okay?”

“I think so—thanks to you.”

He only nods. “Come on. Let’s find a shelter for you two. The street’s no place for you. This will just happen again.”

They walk together. The stranger asks around and learns the John 3:16 Mission is a couple of blocks away and prioritizes mothers with small children.

“You’ll be safer there. They can help you get back on your feet,” he tells her.

He walks them to the mission, then turns to leave. Streetlights flicker on as a light rain begins to fall.

“Wait!” she calls. “Can you tell me your name—so I can pray for you?”

The stranger stops, his broad shoulders silhouetted in the misty light.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I don’t know what it is.”

Army CID Interview Room — 10:00

“First of all, Detective, thank you for coming in and taking the time to talk to us today. I want to assure you no one’s accusing you of wrongdoing. We just need to get to the bottom of this. An active-duty member of the military was attacked on U.S. soil with military-grade explosives.”

“That makes it a possible terror attack. And it happened in your vehicle, so obviously we have questions.”

“I’m glad to help, but I also have questions that I’d like answered.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s not how this works, Detective. I can’t give information on an ongoing investigation. I’m sure you, of all people, can understand that.”

“Now, records show you called Lt. Brooner seconds before the explosion.”

“That’s right.”

“Why did you call him?”

“I needed to speak to him.”

“Why? Hadn’t he just left you? What was so urgent?”

“His belt.”

“His belt?”

“Yeah. He left his brown belt on the floor. That’s kind of like a sin in jiu-jitsu. I was calling to give him a hard time. Then the line went dead.”

“Do you expect me to believe that, Detective? What are you hiding?”

“What am I hiding? What are you hiding? Tell me about Robert Kruger and why you’re trying to cover for him. Tell me why you come in here and sweep this away!”

“Sit down, Detective.”
He slides paperwork across the table. “As of this moment, you’re on suspension. Turn in your badge and sidearm to your sergeant. We’ll be in touch.”

Katy stares at the papers. “You had these ready before I even got here.”

Four Corners Missionary Church — New Mexico

In the dusty conference room of the church, Pastor Joseph Brown sits across from the Colonel, reading sermon notes that have just been handed to him.

Light slants through the windows, throwing beams at odd angles. A large closet looms at one end of the room.

“This is too much,” Pastor Brown whispers. “First you take over my church—the parsonage—you make a mockery of everything we stand for. Now you expect me to preach this blasphemy?”

The Colonel smiles. “I don’t think I need to remind you what I’m capable of—or what you stand to lose. You’ll preach what I tell you to preach. I also want you to start a young men’s group on Wednesday nights that I’ll lead. I want men with addiction problems, men who’ve been in jail, men with sexual sins. Men with weakness or problems with authority.”

“Is that clear?”

Pastor Brown nods, beaten.

“Good,” the Colonel replies, smiling. “You’ll come around, Joseph. The spirit may be willing, but the flesh is weak indeed.”

1979 Rhodesia — Charity Dance for War Widows and Orphans

The dance is attended by all the prestigious academies — among them, the Selous Cadet Academy and Queen Mary’s Girls’ College.

Robbie Kruger doesn’t care much about going, but he doesn’t have a choice. A gentleman must not only lead men in battle but also charm in the ballroom.

The ladies wear their best dresses; the boys, their pressed dress uniforms, polished and precise. A disco ball twirls over the tile dance floor and punch table as the Bee Gees play over the speakers.

Robbie, never much for dancing, hugs the wall, watching his rival Nick talking to several girls. Then he sees her.

Elise Vanderpool.

He’s immediately smitten. Fair skin, dark-gold hair, intelligent hazel eyes that seem older than her years. She carries herself with the poise of someone trained her whole life to be watched. She’s the daughter of Sir Alastair Vanderpool — Director of Internal Security for the CIO — one of the regime’s most feared and politically powerful men. Robbie would have no chance with a girl like her.

When their eyes meet, she smiles at him.
Did she really smile at him?
He glances around to make sure she isn’t smiling at someone else.

“She’s coming over here,” he thinks. “What do I do?”

Elise glides toward him, almost floating, never quite touching the ground. Robbie stands frozen, mesmerized.

She offers her hand in a long white silk glove and dips her head.
“Hello, I’m Elise Vanderpool.”

Robbie stammers.
“I know. I mean—uh—I’m Cadet Robert Kruger. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Elise laughs — a practiced, disarming laugh that sets men at ease.
“Would you like to dance, Cadet Robert Kruger?”

Over the next few months, they secretly become an item.
Because of Elise’s money and influence, she’s able to bribe the tuck-shop courier to pass notes between them at school.

At each charity or sporting event both schools attend, they count down the days until they can see each other — if only for a few fleeting seconds.

They yearn for more. They ache to hold each other, to feel the other’s body close.

Elise presses her father with an idea.

“Father, wouldn’t it be wonderful for Queen Mary’s girls to engage with the cadets on literature? It would show our generation isn’t afraid to think beyond politics. We could have the Literary Exchange at the Selous Academy.”

Present Day — Tulsa, Oklahoma — Trent’s House

Katy walks slowly through each room of Trent’s house, just feeling the energy.

She settles in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
She removes her jacket, loosens her collar, and closes her eyes, focusing on her breathing. Her thumb traces tiny circles on her fingertips.

Her breathing slows. Her heartbeat evens out until she can measure the space between each pulse — longer and longer.
She opens her eyes and looks at the wall.
Not at it — through it.

A rip opens.

Her own voice screams: “GET OUT NOW!”

Trent opens the driver’s door and slams the brake just as the blast erupts.
Fire bursts from the floorboards of the Jeep, funneling up through the driver’s seat and out the open door.
Trent is thrown clear, rolling across the pavement to a stop in the opposite lane.

He staggers up — burned, bleeding from a head wound — and limps toward the woods.

Katy fights to hold the rip open, for the first time resisting its pull. Searing pain cuts through her skull, but she refuses to let go.

She watches Trent stumble toward a homeless encampment—then the rip collapses.

Katy gasps, her shirt soaked with blood from a sudden nosebleed.
“Trent is alive. I have to find him!”

She tries to stand, but her knees buckle. She collapses.

Fade out.

Katy sat on the curb near the scene of the explosion, head in her hands. Cecil stood beside her. Fire crews had worked for hours to put out the blaze.

Emergency vehicles blocked all four lanes of Admiral Place. Flashing lights cut through the dawn. Smoke drifted across the roadway, thick with the smell of burning oil and rubber.

Still no word about Trent.

“This is all my fault,” she said quietly.

“Hey,” Cecil replied. “It’s not your fault. We’ll get to the bottom of it. Just hold on.”

As the morning sun rose over the smoldering wreckage of her Jeep Wrangler, EOD Sergeant Draven approached.

Katy jumped to her feet, hope in her eyes. “What news?”

“Detective Ashby,” Draven said, “the Jeep was empty. Driver’s door blown open. No one inside.”

Katy’s heart leapt. “Empty? Then where is Trent?”

Draven shook his head. “I’m sorry. We’ve searched the perimeter. He’s not in the vehicle, not in the vicinity. He’s just… not here.”

Her knees nearly gave out. “Not here?”

---

At 10:00, Katy walked into the Tulsa FBI field office, eyes bloodshot, still smelling of smoke. She’d managed maybe two hours of sleep.

Agent Redbird met her in the hall. “How are you holding up?”

“I don’t know. I just am,” she said tiredly. “This had to be Kruger. Who else?”

Redbird nodded. “That would be my first guess. Let’s get to work.”

They joined Cecil in the conference room just as three uniformed soldiers and a man in a suit walked in.

The shorter soldier, an officer with glasses and a spreading waistline—stepped forward. “Agent Redbird?”

“I’m Redbird. How can I help you?”

“Captain Tom Wallace, Army CID. We’re taking over the investigation into the attack on Lieutenant Brooner. As he was active-duty military, jurisdiction falls to us. Your investigation into Robert Kruger is now under our command as well.”

He motioned to the younger soldiers. “You’ll hand over all files, hard drives, phones, and flash drives related to the case.”

Katy’s jaw dropped. “They can’t do that!”

Cecil rubbed his temples. “Yes, they can, Katy. And they are.”

Wallace’s tone was curt. “CID will see that justice is done. Interference will not be looked upon favorably.”

“Justice?” Katy’s voice rose. “This isn’t justice. This is containment.”

“I’d advise you to drop it, Detective.”

Cecil gently touched her arm. “Come on. Not here.”

“You know what they’re doing,” she whispered. “They’re sweeping it under the rug.”

“Now’s not the time,” Cecil said quietly.

“My God,” she breathed. “This can’t be happening.”

She pointed at the man in the suit. “And who’s this?”

Wallace’s reply was casual. “You don’t need to concern yourself with him. This is no longer your case. But I do have some questions for you. We’ll schedule an interview tomorrow.”

---

Four Corners Missionary Church – New Mexico

The Colonel sat beneath the porch shade at a picnic table behind the parsonage. On the table lay a worn tan-and-green canvas map case, a Browning Hi-Power, a can of shoe polish, and a rag.

His men had turned the old storage shed into a makeshift gym. Hawk and Patch did pull-ups in the doorway, shirtless under the midday sun, sweat gleaming over muscle and scar.

Pastor Joseph swept the church porch, glancing over at them and shaking his head. This was what his church had become.

The Colonel polished his jump boots to a mirror shine and looked out at the red mesas surrounding the mission. The scent of dust and red clay filled the air.

For a moment, it could have been the Rhodesian Highveld again.

---

1979 – Selous Cadet Academy, Rhodesia

Since his brother’s death, Robbie Kruger had become the model cadet. Where once he questioned orders, he now excelled at following them.

Instructors praised his reformation. “He’s the last true Rhodesian,” one said. “The ghost of Selous,” said another. They congratulated themselves on the officer they’d soon hand to the army—if the army still existed by then.

Rumors spread. The country was changing. Families were leaving for South Africa. Discipline was fraying. And with fame came resentment.

Nicholas Dane, son of a wealthy family, resented the praise showered on the civil servant’s son. It became his mission to humble Robbie.

He knocked Robbie’s rifle from his hands during drills, muttered “teacher’s pet,” left notes in his locker. Robbie ignored it all, which only made Dane angrier.

The breaking point came during bayonet drill. Dane clipped Robbie with a turn, sending him sprawling. Robbie sprang up and tackled him. The two rolled across the dusty parade ground, fists flying.

An instructor built like a tank grabbed Robbie from behind and hurled him backward, then lifted Dane by the collar and tossed him the other way.

“We are training gentlemen here, not wild hooligans. Commandant’s office. Now.”

Inside, they stood at attention, the tick of the wall clock dragging the seconds. The commandant wrote in silence, then finally turned.

“You are lucky to be standing here,” he said coldly. “Next time, you won’t be.”

---

The Colonel’s phone rang. Lioness.

“We have a problem,” she said. “The hit missed Ashby. Her boyfriend, Lieutenant Brooner, was driving. Active-duty military. CID’s opened an investigation.”

“Is he alive?”

“Unknown. He’s in the wind. The good news is Wallace is on it—he’s taken over the case and all files on you.”

“Good,” the Colonel said. “Remind him who buried the Angola problem.”

“I will. But if Brooner surfaces after Wallace cleans this up—”

“Then we finish it,” the Colonel said, voice like gravel. “Ashby and Brooner. This time, we do it right.”

Young Robbie Kruger worshiped his older brother, Jack. He was tall, smart, good-looking, and well liked—everything Robbie wanted to be. Jack was four years older.

Their mother, Margaret, was a government diplomat. She sent the boys to Selous Cadet Academy, on the outskirts of the Matobo Hills, after their father was killed in a political assassination.

Jack won every award and excelled in marksmanship, drill, and discipline. He was the golden son who set the standard for the academy. Robbie always came in second. Where Jack obeyed orders, Robbie questioned them.

When Jack graduated and was assigned to the Selous Scouts, Robbie bragged to anyone who would listen.

“My brother is a killer,” he’d say, a grin spreading across his boyish face.
“They never see him coming. He hunts them before they even know he’s there.”

Then came the news: bad intel, an ambush on Jack’s unit in the bush. Jack was gone. His body was coming home, wrapped in a flag.

Robbie refused to believe it. There was no way. It had to be a mistake. No one could take down Jack Kruger—the Selous Scout, the manhunter, the killer.

He was given leave for the funeral. At home, still numb, he stood in the doorway of his mother’s room. In the dusty beam of sunlight through the window, he watched her prepare her uniform—brushing the wool jacket, straightening the gold buttons, adjusting the ribbons just as she had for his father’s funeral.

That’s when it hit him.

A tear slid down his face. Margaret turned her head; her expression hardened. She stood and faced him.

“We will have no tears in this house, Robbie. Jack was a soldier—a patriot. He fought and died to protect Rhodesia.”

“You would do well to remember how he lived and how he died when your time comes. There are those who want to destroy us and everything we stand for. His sacrifice was greater than him, greater than our family—it was for our nation.”

“We don’t cry about that. We hold our heads high. Now go put on your uniform and get ready for the funeral. And don’t let anyone see you cry.”

The funeral proceeded with crisp military precision. Jack was honored as a son of Rhodesia. Standing beside his mother, Robbie held himself rigid as the riflemen fired a salute. He did not flinch. He did not cry.

When the service ended, Jack’s commanding officer placed a beret and a handful of soil on the casket. The wind lifted the dust into the faces of the cadets standing to his left. Robbie couldn’t help but notice his mother’s cold, gray face—it might have been carved from stone.

New Mexico – Present Day

Joseph Brown swept the red dirt from the front porch of the Four Corners Missionary Church, where he had been pastor for four years. The church sat on a dusty gravel road just off I-40, about four miles from the town of Castle Rock.

Joseph was in his early sixties—small-framed, thinning gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses.

He paused, watching as a black van and a black SUV tore through the parking lot, throwing up dust that settled over the porch he’d just cleaned.

Four men climbed out—rough, hard men. Soldiers, mercenaries, or worse. They hauled equipment bags and rifles into the parsonage.

If you could still call it that. The curtains had been stripped away; the windows were covered from the inside with black cardboard. Trash cans overflowed with beer cans. An empty whiskey crate leaned against one.

It looked more like a safe house than a minister’s home.

Joseph hadn’t seen the inside of the parsonage in months. He now slept in a small room in the church once used for emergency shelter—a cot, a desk, and the faint hum of the generator that now powered the parsonage.

He had lost control of his church and his life the day the Colonel walked into both.

Six months earlier, Joseph Brown was a man with a past best left buried. He had drifted from town to town for years before settling here, where no one knew his secret and few asked questions.

The Four Corners Missionary Church had been dying, without a pastor for five years. The congregation was small but grateful for him.

Joseph had found peace here. The people were kind. He mentored young men and slowly began rebuilding the church.

Then, one Wednesday night, a stranger walked into the evening service and took a seat in the center of the front pew.

The stranger wore starched khaki pants, a black polo, and polished jump boots. He was tall, blond, with deep blue eyes.

He smiled as Joseph preached, but the smile never reached his eyes. Those eyes pinned him in place.

Joseph lost his place in Scripture under that icy stare. He fumbled his notes, stammered, and finally closed the sermon early, offering a brief altar call.

When the service ended and the last parishioner shook his hand and left, the stranger remained.

He carried a tan-and-green canvas satchel—old and faded, a strange contrast to his perfect military precision.

As he approached, he opened the flap and reached inside.

“Joseph Brown. You can call me Colonel,” he said. “I have something you should probably see.”

The Colonel sat behind his desk in the dark office at the back of the church. A single lamp threw a low circle of light across the papers scattered before him.

He turned a glass of Irish whiskey in his right hand, watching condensation trail down the side. In his left—his scarred hand—he held a cigar.

“So? Successful execution?” he said coldly into the speakerphone.

A woman’s voice crackled through. The Lioness.

“From all evidence, it appears so. No confirmed death, but positive detonation on the target vehicle.”

The Colonel nodded, satisfied.

“Good. It’s time to move forward. The boys are back. I need you setting the online traps.”

“Confirmed,” she replied. “I’ve got help-wanted ads ready for social media and classifieds, dating profiles prepped—all the nets in place.”

“Excellent. I’ll set up operations in this church. The dirt you dug up on the pastor will make him the perfect fall guy. There’s a storage facility a mile south—Big Al’s Storage. Find me something to blackmail the owner with. It’ll make a fine trans-shipment station.”

“I’ll get it done.”

“I know you will. You’re about the only woman I can stand to listen to breathe.”

There was a pause.

“Why do you hate women so much, Colonel?”

“That’s a story for another time. But tell me—how do you reconcile teaching women self-defense and funding their scholarships with money made from trafficking?”

“You wouldn’t understand, sir.”

The Colonel shrugged, taking another slow sip of whiskey.

“Maybe not. Either way, we got out of Oklahoma clean. New Mexico’s home now.”

He set down the glass, leaned back in the chair, and smiled without warmth.

“Let’s go to work.”

Season Finale

“Wow,” Trent said slowly, still trying to process the information. “I don’t know what to say.”

They sat across from each other at a picnic table under the shade of an elm tree. The smells from the taco truck drifted over them as they sipped cold drinks.

“How long have you had this power?” he asked.

“It’s not a power,” Katy said. “It’s a gift—or maybe a curse. I’ve had it since I was a child. I used to think I could control it, but sometimes it controls me.”

“Like when you looked into my mind?” Trent frowned.

“Exactly. I never meant to intrude on you. The Rip just took over.”

“You should have told me.”

“I know, but how could I? I was afraid I’d freak you out. I’d finally found a moment of peace and didn’t want to lose it.”

They sat in silence for a few moments before Trent reached across the table and took her hand.

“Hey,” he said softly. “We’ll get over this. Just promise me one thing.”

Katy looked into his eyes and nodded.

“Promise me—no more secrets. I don’t want you carrying something like this alone.”

They don’t make men like this anymore, she thought.

---

A single bulb hung from the ceiling, throwing a small pool of light across an old scarred conference table. Around it sat the remains of Saints Solutions—the backbone, loyal only to the Colonel himself.

Patch, the medic and breacher.
Hawk, sniper and overwatch.
Bull, the enforcer.
Ram, close-quarters expert and interrogator.
And at the head, the Colonel.

Lioness joined by video feed from a dim office somewhere in Texas, the glow of monitors reflecting in her eyes.

The Colonel leaned forward. “We got out of Oklahoma clean—or so I thought. Everything went to plan. The cult and Reagan Sparks took the fall, and the cargo was transported safely.” He paused, voice lowering. “There’s just one problem.”

He slid a photo and a thin dossier across the table. “Her.”

Katy Ashby’s face stared back at them.

“She’s pressing. We close the loop by twenty-two hundred. This week.”

---

0800. Katy sat at her desk, scrolling through an endless inbox—case files, follow-ups, phone calls. Her mind kept drifting: confessing to Trent, how supportive he’d been… the Colonel… the call from the FBI.

Was she about to lose her job? Could she drag Cecil down with her?

Her phone rang.

“Sgt Jackson,” said the voice on the other end. “Can you come to my office, please?”

Katy’s heart jumped. “Yes, sir. On my way.”

She walked in to find Sgt Jackson, Cecil, and a tall woman she didn’t recognize.

“Sit down, Katy,” Jackson said.

“Am I in trouble, sir?”

“Just sit down. Agent Redbird will explain.” Jackson grabbed his coffee mug. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

When the door closed, Katy looked around in confusion. Cecil sat relaxed, hands folded, faint smile on his face.

The woman turned. Tall, slim, athletic—long black braid down her back. A presence that commanded a room.

“Detective Ashby,” she said, voice steady. “Did you run an NCIC check on a Robert Kruger yesterday?”

“Yes ma’am, I did.”

“How did you come by that name?”

Katy hesitated, then answered. “I was searching online, comparing photos to a still I pulled from an old DVR near the Halo. I found a match with that name.”

“Do you have the photo?”

Katy handed her the printout. Redbird studied it for a moment, then looked up. “You realize you just found a man we’ve been hunting for over seven years?”

Katy blinked. Cecil spoke first. “The OSBI said he doesn’t exist.”

Redbird’s eyes hardened. “He does—and you found him. Almost.”

She took a step closer. “How would you two feel about working on a federal task force hunting this Colonel? It gets you off leave and back in the field.”

Katy and Cecil exchanged glances and nodded.

“Good,” Redbird said. “I’ll contact you when it’s set. You’ll report directly to me. Until then, carry on as usual.”

---

Back at her desk, Katy could barely contain her excitement. She wanted to tell Cecil everything but had been warned to keep quiet.

Her phone buzzed.
“Hey, babe,” Trent said. “Looks like I’m deploying in a couple of days.”

“Oh no… I knew it was coming. How long? Where?”

“You know I can’t tell you where,” he said gently. “About three months. My nephew’s staying at my place to look after the truck. Mind if I crash with you till I leave?”

Katy smiled. “I’d love that. I’ll pick you up when I get off work.”

---

At sixteen hundred she pulled into Trent’s driveway. He tossed his duffel in the Jeep, gave his nephew last-minute instructions, and climbed in.

That evening they headed to Wolf-Pack Jiujitsu, just like every Thursday. The parking lot was packed, windows fogged from heat and sweat. Katy parked in the back row.

As they walked in, her phone rang. Agent Redbird’s voice came crisp through the line.

“Detective Ashby. The task force is a go. Report to the FBI Tulsa Field Office in the morning. It’s cleared with TPD.”

Katy’s face lit up.

“Good news?” Trent asked.

“Looks like we’re both about to be busy,” she said.

---

Far away, in a hidden room behind a Krav Maga gym, Lioness watched four monitors—each split into six camera feeds. Servers hummed softly beside her. A Staccato C 9 mm sat on the desk within reach.

She spoke into her headset. “Cameras shutting down in three… two… one. Off.”

On screen, every camera within a block of Wolf-Pack Jiujitsu went black—parking lot, traffic light, the corner store.

“You’re clear to proceed.”

Patch stepped out of a stolen Nissan, pretending to ask about memberships. From a Walmart rooftop to the south, Hawk scanned the area through his scope.

“Bull, Ram—you’re clear,” he murmured.

The two men strolled out of a nearby Chinese restaurant toward Katy’s Jeep. Bull dropped to the pavement and slid underneath while Ram kept watch.

Minutes crawled by.

Ram’s voice came over comms. “What’s taking so long? We don’t have all night.”

Bull’s growl answered. “Bugger off, bokkie. This is delicate work.”

A click of metal. “There. Done, you heroes. Exfil now.”

Hawk: “Copy. Everyone clear.”
Lioness: “Restarting cameras in three… two… one. All live.”

---

Katy rolled with every tough upper belt she could find, chasing the last drop of energy. Trent seemed distracted—deployment on his mind, she figured.

Halfway through class his phone buzzed. He jogged over, answered, and frowned. “It’s command. Briefing in thirty.”

“Take my Jeep,” she said. “I’ll get a ride home.”

He grabbed his bag, threw on a shirt, and kissed her cheek. “Thanks.” Then he was gone.

Later, in the locker room, she laughed when she spotted his brown belt on the floor. She bent to pick it up—and the Rip seized her.

It yanked through her arm like she’d been pulled through glass. Fire. Her Jeep. Trent inside. The explosion blooming in blinding heat.

The Rip released her. She hit the tile, gasping and drenched in sweat.

“Katy! You okay?” someone shouted.
She tried to breathe. “Phone… I need my phone.”

---

Hawk waited in a dark lot off Memorial Drive. “Target spotted. In pursuit.”

He tailed three cars back, keeping his distance. “Heading south on 169.”

Inside the gym, Katy’s trembling hands fumbled for her phone.
“Pick up,” she whispered. “Please pick up.”

“Hey, babe,” Trent answered, calm and smiling. “Missing me already?”

“Trent—get out of the Jeep!”

“What?”

“Just do it! Please—bail out now!”

Hawk’s voice crackled through comms. “She passed her normal exit. Continue or abort?”

The Colonel’s voice came back, cold and sure. “Continue. I want her taken out tonight.”

“Roger. Mission still on.”

Katy screamed into the phone. “TRUST ME! BAIL OUT NOW!”

“Okay, I—” Static filled the line.
“Trent?” she cried. “Trent?”

Hawk turned off 169 onto Admiral. The road was quiet—no traffic, no lights. He hesitated for half a heartbeat, then thumbed the phone.

“Execute,” the Colonel said.

Hawk pressed Send.

---

Katy’s scream echoed through the empty locker room.
“Trent!”

The line went dead.

---

End of Season One.

I was twenty-one years old, working the melt department.

We were a tight crew of five. Our job was to make sure the holding furnaces were full of molten iron at the right temperature and the right chemistry when day shift started.

Molten iron burns away carbon as it sits. After a weekend with no production, the carbon was often low.

When that happened, we had to ladle back.

Ladling back meant hanging a ten-thousand-pound ladle under the spout of the holding furnace using a bridge crane. The ladle was filled, then lifted above a forty-ton melting furnace.

A furnace tender stood at the edge of a twenty-foot drop into a bath of molten iron and turned the ladle wheel by hand. As the ladle turned, iron poured in a wide stream into the furnace below.

The faster it poured, the higher the flames rose. The heat increased. Drops of iron bounced and scattered. But if the iron poured too slowly, it could freeze in the ladle. That would be a disaster.

The two furnace tenders took turns ladling back.

That Sunday night, it was my turn.

I put on my face shield, tinted glasses, and flameproof jacket. The crane operator positioned the ladle over the furnace. From the control room, the melter opened the lid.

I stepped to the edge and looked down into the glowing iron. The heat burned your nose. You could smell the carbon, manganese, and silica cooking out of the metal.

The dry heat hit my body all at once. There was no turning away from it. This was as close to hell as I could imagine.

I gripped the ladle wheel with a gloved hand and unchained the safety latch.

I turned the wheel until the stream was steady and where I wanted it. Then I stepped slightly behind the ladle and cranked it harder.

The flames rose. Iron flew. The heat climbed. The metallic jacket became almost unbearable. I tucked myself farther behind the ladle to shield from the fire.

The ladle was about half empty when it happened.

The crane operator suddenly lowered the ladle. It struck the platform and began to swing.

The stream of molten iron spilled across the deck. The operator panicked and raised the ladle too fast. It swung side to side, slinging iron through the air.

Behind me was a wall. To my left, a forty-foot drop. In front of me, the open furnace.

There was only one way out.

The ladle swung back and forth, blocking it.

Iron splashed around me. Charred sand and graphite filled the air and choked my lungs. The cloud was so thick it felt like the lights had gone out. Balls of iron bounced across the concrete and lodged in my clothes, burning my skin.

I pressed my back against the wall and watched the ladle swing.

When it reached the far end of its arc, I saw my chance.

I jumped from the platform and ran through the fire and smoke. Seconds later, the ladle swung back.

I didn’t look behind me.

After a short break, we cleaned up the mess and went back to ladling. We finished filling the furnaces.

It was just another Sunday night in Melt.

I move with care over the damp ground,

slowly, as if part of the forest itself.

I pause every few steps and listen to the sound of the woods—

bird calls, leaves rustling beneath squirrels’ feet.

I feel a slight breeze on my face,

a chill on one side telling me its direction and speed.

In the calm mist of the early morning, I hear a crow calling.

From a distance, another answers.

A musky scent drifts on the breeze from the draw below.

I feel completely alone,

yet part of the forest itself.

The silence has a sound all its own.

In the calm mist of the early morning, I continue my trek—

slow and steady, quiet and smooth,

not as an outsider,

but as one who belongs.

My feet find the path as if the knowledge

has been passed down through my bloodline.

Here, I find peace.

Here is my home.

In the calm mist of the early morning, a hawk circles overhead.

The air hangs heavy;

movement is felt before it is seen.

I find peace and comfort

in the calm mist of the early morning.

The sun melts into the horizon spilling out its colors

The warm colors collide with the frigid sky a la mode

Creating a stillness in time that feels fleeting

As if trying to keep it might make you lose it

The only way to save it is to not try to hold on to it

The only way to keep it is to live in it.

I can see the light filtered

down through layers of pain.

The pain envelops me like water,

drowning me—choking me—

dimming the light.

It comes in waves.

I shake my head.

I strain my eyes.

I try to will the pain away,

to will myself back to the light.

But the darkness grows

as I sink deeper

into the voids of pain.

My only companion

pressed at my side.

I feel her warmth at my hip.

Her presence steadies me.

Sometimes the light of the surface

grows clearer.

Some days I slip farther

into the darkness.

Other days my head

breaks into the light.

Most days,

I am suspended in between—

under the surface of the pain,

sinking,

looking up at the light.

When it’s waiting; biding its time

Waiting for the last few seconds, the last few breaths

It’s unmistakable once you’ve learned its scent

It’s comforting in a heartbreaking way

It promises rest to tired souls

Peace to tormented minds

Regret to us who learned to recognize its pungent musk

It signals the end; the sweet stench of an ending to a story in this world.

Who knows where the story takes them next

there is no growth without struggle.

When I was lost in the woods,

I learned to listen

to things I’d never heard.

When I was lost in the city,

I learned to look

in places I’d never seen.

When I was lost in my career,

I learned to feel

things I’d never felt.

When I lost my health,

I learned to trust

people I’d never known.

When I lost my mind,

I learned to listen

to my heart.