You take one more step toward me, Staff Sergeant, and you won't just lose your stripes—you'll be facing a court-martial before dinner, I said, my voice steady despite being only seventeen years o...
Miles away from the quiet military housing, in a dimly lit, abandoned auto repair shop on the outskirts of Killeen, Hector Reyes tapped his fingers impatiently on a grease-stained workbench. The air hung heavy with the smell of stale oil and desperation.
Victor Delgado walked in, attempting a casual demeanor, but the sweat beading on his forehead betrayed his unease. He scanned the empty bays, a nervous twitch in his eye.
“Gato,” Victor said, forcing a smile. “What’s up? I’ve got those manifests you wanted.”
Hector Reyes didn’t return the smile. He tossed a crumpled cigarette pack onto the bench, the sound echoing in the cavernous space. His face, usually an unreadable mask, was etched with a rare, cold fury.
“My contacts are seeing shadows, Victor,” Reyes said, his voice low and dangerous. “Military Intelligence. CID. They’re asking questions.”
Victor’s forced smile vanished. “Base audits, probably,” he mumbled, trying to sound dismissive. “They’re always sniffing around logistics. Nothing to do with us.”
Reyes leaned forward, his eyes like chips of obsidian. “Don’t play me for a fool, Staff Sergeant. My men saw two unmarked vehicles, black SUVs, parked near the 190 overpass for two days straight. Not traffic cops. Not local Killeen PD.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch, thick with menace. “These are new faces. People asking about ‘unusual activity’ near the old industrial park. Our drop points, Victor.”
Victor shifted his weight, his eyes darting around the room. He kept quiet about the dining facility incident. He kept quiet about Maya’s DoD clearance. And he definitely kept quiet about my father’s old phone and the recovered messages.
“It’s just protocol, Hector,” Victor insisted, his voice a little too high. “They cycle through patrols, it’s routine.”
Reyes slammed his hand down on the workbench, making a rusted wrench jump. Victor flinched.
“Routine doesn’t draw this kind of heat,” Reyes snarled. “Routine doesn’t make my network twitch like a mouse in a viper pit.”
He stepped closer to Victor, invading his personal space. Reyes was shorter, but his presence was utterly dominating.
“Listen to me very carefully, Staff Sergeant,” Reyes said, his voice a guttural growl. “My business runs clean. No loose ends. No federal heat.”
He gripped Victor’s arm, his fingers digging into the fabric of the fatigues. “If your personal drama, your family problems, your petty financial schemes, bring the Army CID or the Feds to my door…”
Reyes’s eyes were unblinking, chillingly sincere. “My network will fix the problem. Permanently. And we won’t be waiting for a judge, or a court-martial, or some military police to make a formal arrest.”
He released Victor’s arm, the imprint of his fingers lingering. “Understand?”
Victor swallowed hard, a visible bob of his Adam’s apple. He understood. The syndicate’s wrath would be far swifter and far less forgiving than any military justice system. He was caught between two worlds, and both were closing in.
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