Chapter 3
Cole Anders lifted the tablet. My contractor badge photo appeared on the screen. Rebecca Cross. Maintenance Specialist. Four years on base. Spotless record. Then he swiped down. The page went blank.
"No school records before age fifteen," Anders said. "No family records. No flight school. No prior commands. Nobody just drops out of the sky, Cross."
I smiled without warmth. "You'd be surprised."
A gust slammed the hangar door, whipping dust across the floor. My sleeve shifted. One inch. That was all it took.
Anders saw the tattoo on my wrist before I could hide it. TG-0715.
His face changed. Not shock. Recognition.
"Top Gun," he said quietly. "July 2015."
I yanked my sleeve down. "You don't know what that means."
"I know twelve pilots graduated that class," he said. "And one disappeared after a classified crash hearing."
The siren wailed again. Longer this time. Meaner.
May you like
Colonel Nathan Riker entered the hangar like the whole base had been waiting for him to breathe. Tall, silver-haired, clean uniform, hard eyes. Behind him came Commander Victor Sloan.
My stomach turned.
