Several relatives shifted uncomfortably, but nobody challenged him. Brent had spent years training everyone to interpret his arrogance as confidence.
He bit into his chicken wing and spoke around the mouthful. “I could probably get you an interview at Northstar. Entry level, obviously. Maybe operations support or internal HR. You’d finally get exposure to real defense work instead of whatever filing department you’re hiding in.”
The phrase real defense work almost made me laugh.
Three months earlier, I had spent twenty-six consecutive hours inside a secure command facility coordinating specialists from four agencies after an overseas communications network began behaving in ways it should not have. Two months before that, I had signed an architecture directive that affected systems Brent’s company helped maintain.
Brent had probably seen portions of my work.
He simply had no idea whose work it was.
“I appreciate the offer,” I said.
His smile sharpened. “See? Pride. That’s what holds people back.”
A vibration touched the inside of my wrist.
Not my phone.
The slim device beneath my sleeve pulsed twice, paused, then pulsed again.
My glass stopped halfway to my mouth.
Nobody else noticed.
I lowered my arm beneath the table and pulled my sleeve back just enough to see a short encrypted sequence glowing against the display. The numbers vanished after less than two seconds, replaced by a simple black screen.
Priority recall.
Immediate movement.
A cold awareness moved through me.
I had received emergency recalls before, but never while on approved personal leave and never using that pattern.
“Elena?”
I looked up.
My grandmother, seated across the table, was studying me. Unlike everyone else, she noticed small changes.
“You all right?”
“Fine.”
Brent snorted. “Probably got an email from payroll.”
Another vibration.
This one came from the phone inside my pocket.
I excused myself and walked toward the kitchen, moving slowly enough not to attract attention. The house felt almost unnaturally cool after the July humidity outside, and the hum of the refrigerator seemed loud in the empty room. I placed my phone on the granite island.
There was no caller identification.
I answered.
“Ward.”
A familiar male voice spoke only five words.
“Secure transport is inbound now.”
My spine straightened.
“How far?”
“Four minutes.”
“What changed?”
“Not on this line.”
The call ended.
For several seconds, I stood alone in my uncle’s kitchen listening to the muffled laughter outside.
Four minutes.
Whatever had happened was serious enough that they were sending secure transport directly to my location rather than ordering me to report to the nearest facility. That meant someone senior was involved, and senior people did not cross suburban neighborhoods with protective details because they needed a signature on routine paperwork.
I slid the phone back into my pocket.
When I returned outside, Brent was telling another story about a presentation he had given to “Pentagon leadership,” though I knew enough about his company’s reporting structure to suspect the leadership consisted of two civilian program managers and a procurement representative.
“There she is,” he said. “I was just explaining pressure. Elena doesn’t really understand that world.”
I sat down.
“Probably not.”
My grandmother’s eyes narrowed slightly.
She knew me well enough to hear something in my voice the others missed.
Brent leaned toward me. “Seriously, Elena, where do you see yourself in five years?”
The first distant rumble reached us before I could answer.
At first, it sounded like a delivery truck accelerating too hard.
Then came a second engine.
Then another.
The voices around the patio faded as two large black armored SUVs rounded the corner at the far end of the street and approached fast enough to make several neighbors step away from their lawns.
Brent stood.
“What the hell?”
The vehicles slowed sharply outside my uncle’s property.
A third vehicle stopped behind them.
Then a local police cruiser positioned itself across part of the intersection.
Aunt Diane’s napkin slipped from her lap.
My uncle stared through the fence. “Is somebody being arrested?”
Brent’s face changed.
For all his bragging about defense contracts, he had never been comfortable around actual government security operations.
He cleared his throat and smoothed the front of his shirt. “It could be Northstar.”
Everyone looked at him.
“We have sensitive contracts,” he explained quickly. “Maybe something came up. Emergency compliance issue. They might need someone senior.”
Someone senior.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
The wooden side gate opened.
Two security officers entered first, scanning the yard with professional efficiency rather than theatrical aggression.
Then a tall man in Army service uniform stepped through behind them.
Four silver stars were visible on his shoulders.
My uncle stopped breathing loudly enough for me to hear it.
Brent whispered, “Oh my God.”
I recognized the man immediately.
General Nathaniel Cross.
Director of Strategic Defense Integration.
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