Chapter 17 - UNRAVELING BLACKWOOD
They advanced through the rocky draw, using the deep shadows of the granite boulders to conceal their movement from aerial observation. Overhead, the low, mechanical drone of an unseen aircraft circled through the clouds, its invisible infrared cameras scouring the desert floor for thermal signatures.
"How did you end up in supply?" Miller whispered, her breath misting in the freezing air. "With your skill set, you could have worked for any private intelligence firm in the world. You could have been wealthy."
Claire leaped lightly across a two-foot fissure in the rock, landing without a sound. "Wealth attracts attention, Sergeant. In supply, you become invisible. People look through you. To the officers, you're just a clerk who hands out grease pencils, entrenching tools, and canvas bags. If you make a mistake, they yell at you; if you do your job well, they ignore you. For twelve years, I didn't touch a weapon. I ate processed cafeteria food, watched bad television in the barracks, and slept eight hours a night. It was the only peace I’ve ever known."
"Until today," Miller said, grimacing as she climbed a steep incline. "Why did you shoot that target like that? If you wanted to stay hidden, why didn't you just spray the rounds across the dirt?"
Claire hesitated, her boots pausing on a flat granite ledge.
"Because my hands remembered," she whispered softly. "I tried to aim at the berm. I intended to miss. But the moment my finger touched that trigger... the training broke through the medication. The brain took over. It refused to let me shoot badly. It’s like breathing; you can hold your breath for a minute, but eventually, your lungs will force you to inhale."
She turned and looked Miller straight in the eye. "My body is a weapon built by people who didn't care about my soul. And today, my body woke up."
Before Miller could process the confession, a sharp mechanical hum vibrated through the stones beneath their boots.
From beyond the crest of the quarry ridge, the sudden roar of turbine blades shattered the desert silence. A light attack helicopter—matte black, unilluminated, stripped of all national markings—crested the rocky ridge sixty yards away.
Its nose-mounted thermal camera pivoted directly toward their position.
"Down!" Claire yelled, grabbing Miller by the collar of her tactical vest and hurling her violently behind a massive slab of granite.
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A split second later, the helicopter’s multi-barrel minigun spun up with an ear-splitting electric whine. A torrent of three thousand rounds per minute tore into the rocks above them, reducing granite boulders to pulverized sand, turning the night sky into a screaming curtain of fire and shrapnel.
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