We breached the heavy steel doors of the annex. The air inside was stale, smelling of rust and old targets.
At the end of a long, concrete corridor, a single tactical light blinded us.
“Slide the weapons across the floor,” a voice commanded.
I squinted against the glare. The man holding the gun to Lucas’s head wasn’t a faceless mercenary. He was wearing the uniform of a Navy Commander.
It was Paul Voss. The deputy director of base security. A man I had shaken hands with an hour ago.
Lucas lifted his head. His eyes met mine. They were the same deep, stormy gray I had dreamed of for two thousand nights. Em, he mouthed, silent.
“The watch, Captain Carter,” Voss smiled, his gun pressed hard behind Lucas’s ear.
I reached for my sidearm to toss it away.
But before my fingers touched the grip, a cold steel barrel pressed against the base of my skull.
