Chapter 5 - "COLE."
Brandon Cole was still leaning over Emily’s shoulder, his face twisted into a smug, triumphant scowl as he waited for her to yield.
"I'm waiting," Brandon growled into her ear. "Pick up the tray."
Emily didn't answer him. Sensing the sudden, shift in her environment, her left hand moved with quiet, deliberate speed. She pulled her arm back, and the thick black cotton sleeve of her hoodie slid smoothly back down over her wrist, covering the pale skin and the silvery mark completely.
Before Brandon could reach for her tray himself, a voice cut across the room.
"Cole."
The word wasn't yelled. It carried no artificial boom or performative rage. It was a single, heavy syllable delivered with an icy, absolute authority that immediately killed every conversation within a thirty-foot radius.
Brandon paused, his hand hovering over Emily’s tray. He turned his head casually, expecting to see an officer or a buddy joining in on the joke.
Senior Chief Rhodes was walking down the center aisle toward the Alpha table.
His stride was heavy, his shoulders set, his granite face completely drained of color. He looked like a man walking through a bad dream, his dark eyes locked with terrifying intensity not on Brandon, but on Emily Ross.
Brandon straightened up, adjusting his olive training top, his smug smile returning as he faced his senior chief.
"Senior," Brandon said, waving a casual hand toward Emily. "Just clearing up some table space. This civilian was—"
Rhodes didn't look at Brandon. He didn't even acknowledge that Brandon had spoken. He walked straight past Brandon’s shoulder, stopping two feet from the edge of Emily’s table.
The silence around SEAL Alpha table spread rapidly outward like oil on water. Operators at neighboring tables stopped talking, noticing the pale, unnatural expression on their senior chief’s face. The two men holding phones lowered them completely, tucking them into their pockets.
Rhodes stared down at Emily. His broad, calloused hands were trembling slightly at his sides—a detail that Tyler Graves noticed with a sudden, sickening jolt of alarm.
"Where did you get that?" Rhodes asked.
His voice was hoarse, cracking slightly at the edges, stripped of all military bluster.
Emily looked up from her turkey sandwich. Her hazel eyes met Rhodes’ dark, panicked gaze. For the first time since she had walked into the mess hall, her calm expression flickered—not with fear, but with a slight, weary annoyance.
She reached down and pulled the cuff of her black hoodie even tighter over her left wrist.
"It doesn't matter," Emily said softly.
May you like
Rhodes took a step closer, his heavy combat boot striking the linoleum with a loud, dull thud.
"It matters," Rhodes whispered.
