Chapter 9 - The Cadre’s Salute
Harrison walked past the medical team that was rushing onto the mat with stretchers and ice packs to tend to Drake, Kowalski, and the gasping Bennett.
Harrison stopped right at the edge of the mat, standing directly in Sarah’s path as she picked up her fallen notebook and water bottle from the floorboards.
Sarah stopped. She raised her head, looking up at the silver-haired master sergeant who had served alongside her father decades ago.
Harrison looked at her—at her calm eyes, her unblemished skin, and the faded, charcoal belt wrapped securely around her waist.
Without saying a word, Harrison brought his feet together, snapped his posture into absolute rigid attention, and executed a sharp, flawless, formal military salute.
It was not a salute required by rank—Sarah was a junior operative, and Harrison was a senior master sergeant. It was the highest form of respect one elite warrior could offer another.
"Operative Mitchell," Harrison said, his voice deep and thick with emotion. "Your father would be extremely proud."
Sarah felt a small, rare warmth blossom behind her chest. She raised her right hand, returning the salute with crisp, surgical precision.
"Thank you, Master Sergeant," Sarah whispered softly.
Across the mat, the medical team had managed to sit Bennett up. His face was pale, his nose bleeding slightly from the shock of the jaw palm strike, his body trembling as two medics supported his heavy arms.
As Bennett looked across the gym, meeting Sarah’s eyes, he didn't offer a single snide remark. He didn't look away with anger. He looked at her with pure, unadulterated awe and deep, permanent humiliation.
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He slowly bowed his head, unable to hold her gaze for another second.
His squad mates—Drake and Kowalski—were being helped onto their feet, clutching their injuries, their arrogance completely shattered, replaced by the bitter realization that they had challenged a legend's heir and paid the ultimate physical price.
