In 1973 Virginia, quiet Army Major Elizabeth Halloway is falsely accused of wearing stolen military uniform by her former mentor, facing illegal arrest and gaslighting before fate intervenes.
I stood my ground, the rain plastering my hair to my face. The demand to strip off my uniform jacket hung heavy in the damp air.
“I will not remove my uniform,” I stated, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “Not without a Military Police escort and proper federal authorization.”
Major Pendelton’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something ugly passing through them. “Federal authorization? Major Halloway, you are suffering from post-traumatic stress. This is for your own good.”
Deputy Kincaid stepped forward, his heavy boots squelching in the mud. He moved with a practiced, aggressive swiftness that caught me off guard.
A cold, metallic snap echoed in the quiet gas station lot as the handcuffs closed around my wrists. The cuffs felt tight against my skin, digging in as he pulled my arms behind me with unnecessary force.
“Delusion, Elizabeth,” Pendelton continued, his voice softer now, almost pitying, but his eyes were hard. “Your career ended in ’71. This rank, this uniform… it’s a fabrication.”
He gestured vaguely at my chest, where my official courier transport credentials were pinned beneath my dress uniform jacket. The rain beaded on the laminated card.
“You’re a veteran, Beth, but your mind has simply broken. We’re here to help.” He offered a sickening, paternal smile.
Kincaid twisted my arm, forcing me forward. The sudden movement sent a jolt of pain up my shoulder.
“Get in the car,” Kincaid grunted, pushing me towards the rear door of the cruiser. The smell of stale coffee and damp upholstery wafted out.
I stumbled, catching myself before I fell. Pendelton’s words clawed at the edges of my composure. My mind had broken? My entire career, erased?
He spoke of ’71, but I knew I’d been deployed until ’72, back at Fort Lee preparing for this very logistics run. His lie felt chillingly precise.
“This is illegal,” I said, my voice rising. “You have no right to detain an active-duty officer.”
“Active duty?” Pendelton scoffed, a dry, dismissive sound. “Your records were flagged years ago. You don’t have active clearance for anything, let alone this special courier run you’re imagining.”
My courier orders. The specific, sealed dispatch log tucked into my belt. He knew about them. A cold dread seeped into my bones, deeper than the rain.
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