Chapter 11 - The Knock on the Glass
The two MPs stepped forward, handing the official summons envelopes to Dad and Derek.
Dad took the paper with fingers that shook so violently the envelope rattled like dry leaves. He looked at Colonel Harris, then at Frank Reynolds, then at Aunt Brenda. No one would meet his eyes. He had become a pariah in the very room he had spent months preparing for his coronation.
Finally, Dad looked at me.
His eyes were completely hollow. The pride, the arrogance, the thirty years of bullying and dismissive contempt—all of it had collapsed, leaving behind a broken, aging man staring at the daughter he had spent a lifetime trying to erase.
“Morgan...” he croaked, taking a shuffling step toward me, his hand reaching out in a desperate, pleading gesture. “Morgan, please. You’re Central Command. You know the Inspector General. You know the Generals at Bragg. You can talk to them. You know this is just a paperwork mistake... I was trying to help your brother... Morgan, they’ll strip my pension. I won't have anything.”
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
I saw the man who had torn up my track ribbons. The man who had refused to look at my commission. The man who had called me his 'little puppy' thirty minutes ago in front of the people he wanted to impress.
“Marcus,” I said, turning away from my father.
“Yes, ma’am?” Brody responded.
“Let’s go. We have a flight to Tampa at 2200.”
I turned on my heel and walked toward the exit, my dress shoes clicking firmly against the floor. Brody fell in beside me, matching my stride. Behind us, Dad’s shrill, panicked voice echoed across the emptying hall, begging, pleading, and screaming my name, but I didn't turn back.
We pushed through the heavy glass double doors into the cool, damp night air. The parking lot was dark, save for the orange glow of the streetlights reflecting off the wet pavement.
Waiting at the curb was a black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows and Department of Defense government plates, its engine idling with a low, rumbling hum.
Brody opened the rear passenger door for me. “Hell of a family reunion, Colonel.”
“You have no idea, Marcus,” I said, stepping toward the open door.
Just as my foot touched the running board, the front passenger window of the Suburban rolled down with a smooth mechanical hum.
Inside sat a woman wearing civilian clothes, but with an earpiece tucked into her ear and a red-striped courier pouch strapped across her chest. She wasn't one of Brody’s staff. She carried the insignia of the National Security Council.
She looked directly at me, her face grim.
“Colonel Vance,” the agent said, holding up a secure, encrypted satellite tablet that was flashing a red emergency banner across the screen. “Change of plans. The Bragg CID investigation wasn't triggered by a standard audit.”
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I froze, one hand on the car door frame. “What are you talking about?”
The agent tapped the glass with the corner of the device, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “The arms your father and brother moved didn't go to local gun shows, Colonel. They were tracked to a safehouse in northern Mexico linked to an active hostage situation involving three American intelligence operatives. The Pentagon needs to know right now: did you know what your father was moving out of that depot?”
