The midday sun beat down mercilessly over the tarmac at Joint Base Charleston, radiating waves of heat against the polished black patent leather of my dress shoes. Before me stood two

Glass sprayed across my face in a sparkling, lethal wave. The sound of high-caliber rounds punching through the Tahoe’s heavy engine block sounded like an industrial punch press.

"Down! Marcus, stay down!" Maya screamed, drawing her Glock 19 and firing three controlled rounds through the shattered passenger-side window.

My tactical instincts, honed over three tours in hostile territory, took over before my injured body could register the protest. I rolled out of the passenger seat, hitting the asphalt hard on my uninjured left hip, pulling my service sidearm from my shoulder holster.

The pain in my right side felt like a white-hot knife being twisted into the bone, but adrenaline surged through my system, dulling the agony into background noise.

"Two shooters on the flatbed!" Henderson called out from the rear of the vehicle, his MP5 barking in short, disciplined three-round bursts. "One behind the pickup! They’re wearing tactical gear—these aren't street thugs! They’re private contractors!"

"Harlan hired mercenaries," I grunted, dragging myself behind the protection of the Tahoe's rear tire. "He knows the federal hammer is coming down. He’s liquidating witnesses!"

A round sparked off the rim of the Tahoe, inches from my head.

"We can’t stay pinned behind this engine block," Maya said, her magazine running empty. She slapped a fresh mag into the magwell with the heel of her hand. "The fuel tank on that pickup behind us is leaking. If they hit it with a tracer, we’re toast."

"Henderson!" I shouted over the gunfire. "Cover the ditch on the right! Maya, suppress the cab of that flatbed!"

"What are you doing?" Maya yelled back.

"Moving," I said.

Ignoring the tearing sensation in my surgical sutures, I scrambled on my elbows and knees into the shallow drainage canal flanking the road. The brackish water soaked through my uniform pants, freezing against my fresh wounds, but the steep embankment provided complete concealment from the shooters on the flatbed.

I crawled fifteen yards through the muck, keeping my head below the waterline of the weeds.

Through the reeds, I spotted the shooter behind the pickup truck. He was focused entirely on Henderson’s position, holding a civilian AR-15, leaning out from the driver’s side door to line up a shot on our rear tire.

I didn't hesitate. I rested the barrel of my Glock against the muddy bank, controlled my breathing despite the fire in my chest, and pulled the trigger twice.

The shooter dropped instantly into the marsh grass.

"One down!" I yelled.

Suddenly, the flatbed’s engine roared to life. The driver realized the ambush had failed and that federal authorities were likely already responding to the gunfire. The heavy truck reversed violently, scraping against the metal guardrail, before tearing down the opposite lane toward the interstate.

"They’re running!" Maya called out, stepping out from behind the smoking Tahoe, her weapon raised.

Henderson sprinted past the rear bumper, securing the fallen shooter in the grass, checking his pulse, and kicking his weapon away.

"He’s alive," Henderson called back, pulling out a set of steel cuffs. "And he's wearing an ID badge from Palmetto Security Solutions—a private firm owned by Harlan Cross’s brother-in-law."

I hauled myself up from the ditch, leaning heavily against the guardrail, my service uniform drenched in swamp mud and fresh blood where two of my hip sutures had popped open.

Maya rushed over, wrapping her arm around my shoulder to keep me upright.

"You're bleeding through your pants, Marcus," she said, her voice shaking with adrenaline. "We need to get you back to the trauma bay right now."

"No," I gasped, wiping mud from my eyes. "The press conference starts in thirty minutes. We get the key, and we go to that podium."

"Marcus, you can barely stand!"

"Maya, listen to me," I grabbed her jacket, looking into her eyes. "My mother spent her last days dying in silence because she thought nobody would believe her against him. Harlan shot me in front of my unit. He ambushed us on a public road. If I don't stand at that microphone tonight, he wins. He gets to tell the world who I am."

Henderson walked over, his phone to his ear, his face grim.

"State Police are two minutes out," Henderson said, hanging up. "And I just got word from base security. Harlan Cross's PR team just arrived at the local television studio in Savannah. He’s going live in twenty-five minutes."