I stepped back into the shadows of the security tent, tearing the heavy canvas of my garment bag open. The air in the corridor was thick with the muffled sounds of the Navy band playing inside the grand auditorium, a stark contrast to the roaring silence in my own head. My hands shook, not from sadness, but from a deeply rooted, volcanic anger. For fifteen years, I had swallowed their insults. I had smiled politely at Thanksgiving dinners while my father toasted to Marcus’s “bravery,” completely unaware that the only reason Marcus’s ship hadn’t been blown out of the water in the Persian Gulf was because my intelligence unit had covertly intercepted the incoming coordinates.
I shed my civilian trench coat, letting it hit the concrete floor with a soft, satisfying thud. Underneath, I was already wearing it: the pristine, blindingly white Choker uniform of the United States Navy. But it wasn’t the uniform of a petty officer or a desk clerk. Gleaming on my shoulder boards were three solid silver stars.
