So. He wasn’t only watching.

He had come prepared.

I rolled behind a stack of crates as another shot sparked against the floor. My heart slammed once, twice, then steadied into something colder.

The shooter spoke from somewhere ahead.

“Commander Reed.”

His voice was calm. Educated. American.

I stayed silent.

“We were told you had become fragile.”

My hand closed around a broken piece of crate wood.

He laughed softly. “Apparently not.”

Footsteps shifted. Slow. Testing.

I listened.

Three steps. Pause. Weight to the right. He wanted me to think he was closer than he was.

Amateur mistake, or deliberate bait?

I glanced up at the reflective surface of a steel refrigerator door across the corridor. It showed only fragments: light, shadow, a dark sleeve.

Enough.

I threw the wood down the hallway to my left.

He fired at the sound.

I moved at the same instant, low and fast, crossing the open gap. My shoulder hit him at the waist before he could turn the weapon back toward me. We crashed into the wall together.

The gun clattered away.

He was stronger than he looked. Younger too, maybe early thirties. Clean-shaven. No tattoo. No obvious insignia. But his movements gave him away. Military training, modified by private work. A man who had left the uniform but kept the habits.

He drove an elbow toward my ribs.

I blocked it badly. Pain lit white behind my eyes.

He almost broke free.

Almost.

I caught his wrist, twisted, and slammed him face-first into the service door beside us. Not hard enough to kill. Hard enough to make his knees fail.

He sagged.

I pinned his arm behind his back and leaned close.

“Who sent you?”

He coughed a laugh. “You already know.”

“Lang.”

At the name, his smile vanished.

That was answer enough.

Behind me, boots thundered down the corridor. Admiral Hale appeared with two agents, weapons raised.

“Clear!” I called.

One agent secured the shooter. The other retrieved the gun.

Hale stared at me, then at the man on the floor. “You disobeyed an extraction order.”

“You’re welcome.”

His mouth tightened, but I could see relief in his eyes.

The shooter turned his head just enough to look at me. Blood touched his lip, but his voice remained steady.

“He said you’d come running.”

I crouched. “Who?”

The man’s eyes flicked to Hale.

Then back to me.

“The Admiral.”

Everything inside me went still.

Hale’s expression didn’t change.

Not even slightly.

“Get him up,” he ordered.

The agents lifted the shooter to his feet.

I stood slowly, watching Hale now instead of the prisoner.

Five years ago, I trusted men with stars on their shoulders.

Five years ago, I believed orders came from places of honor.

Five years ago, my entire team died because I was wrong.

Hale noticed my stare.

“Rebecca,” he said quietly, using my first name for the first time that day, “don’t start building ghosts out of shadows.”

“Funny,” I answered. “That’s exactly how ghosts are made.”

Before he could respond, a woman’s scream ripped through the resort.

Vanessa.

I ran.

The beach had become controlled chaos. Guests were being pushed toward the lobby by security. Officers formed a protective half-ring around the wedding area. My father was on his knees in the sand, one hand pressed against his chest, breathing hard.

Vanessa stood beside him, pale and shaking.

She was safe.

But she was staring at the wedding cake.

At first, I didn’t understand.

Then I saw the knife.

It was buried neatly in the center of the top tier, pinning a small white envelope into the icing.

No one moved toward it.

Hale arrived behind me. His face hardened.

“Bomb team,” he said.

“No.” I stepped forward.

“Commander—”

“It’s a message.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes,” I said, looking at the envelope. “I do.”

Because the handwriting on the front was mine.

Not similar.

Mine.

Rebecca Reed.

The letters matched the old field notes I used to write during deployment. Even the slight pressure mark under the R, where my hand always hesitated.