Fort Bragg – Present Day

  The air smelled of CLP and spent brass.

  Master Sergeant Anthony Cade stood at the edge of the shoot house, watching his team clear rooms with disciplined precision. Years had passed since Syria. The rank on his chest had changed. The ghosts had not.

  “Room clear.”

  “Hallway secure.”

  Sergeant First Class Miguel Alvarez flowed through the final doorway, weapon tight to shoulder. Staff Sergeant Luke Bishop followed, movement controlled and quiet. Sergeant Jackson Mercer was last through, slightly faster than doctrine recommended but correcting himself as he moved.

  Cade clocked it.

  He clocked everything.

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  The team reset at the breach point.

  Jackson removed his helmet. “We shaving seconds or going for pretty, Top?”

  “Pretty keeps you alive,” Cade replied evenly.

  Alvarez smirked. “He’s saying slow down.”

  Jackson rolled his eyes but nodded.

  Cade studied them for a moment.

  Alvarez had been with him since before Syria. Calm under pressure. Texas drawl. Steady.

  Bishop had come later. Former Navy SEAL who had tried civilian life and found it lacking. Quiet. Observant. Deadly accurate.

  Jackson was different. Younger. Fast. Still proving something—to himself or to ghosts of his own.

  Cade’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

  That never happened during training.

  He checked the screen.

  “Team room. Now.”

  No explanation.

  He looked at Alvarez.

  “Call it.”

  Alvarez clapped once. “Secure weapons. Team room.”

  The joking stopped immediately.

  Whatever this was—it wasn’t routine.