The tarmac was still wet from a recent rain, glistening beneath the dull gray sky like polished gunmetal. Brat stepped off the transport with one duffel slung over her shoulder and a hard case of gear in her grip. Head high, shoulders squared, eyes forward.

  She looked like someone who had learned to rebuild herself one bone at a time.

  Her boots hit the ground with purpose as she scanned the perimeter. The hangar ahead was functional, ugly, secure—just the way she liked it. Everything here spoke of precision and pressure. No frills, no fluff. Just steel and structure.

  “Oi,” a voice called out. A tall man stepped into view, tactical jacket unzipped, sleeves rolled halfway. His walk was relaxed, but his gaze was sharp. “You Sabrina Dawson?”

  She didn’t flinch at the use of her full name. Just gave a short nod.

  “Brat is fine,” she said evenly, her voice carrying more steel than softness.

  He tilted his head a bit, mildly amused but not mocking. “Gaz,” he offered, stepping forward to take the gear case out of her hand without waiting for permission.

  She didn’t let go.

  His grip tightened slightly in a silent test. She didn’t yield.

  A beat passed. Then Gaz gave a small nod of approval and let the case go. “Alright then,” he said smoothly, as if the test hadn’t happened. “Follow me.”

  Brat did, wordless. The corridors they walked through were clean, spartan, silent—military without the bravado. Every inch of the space served a purpose. She liked that.

  They stopped outside a steel door near the command wing. Gaz gave a single knock, then stepped aside.

  “Captain’ll brief you first,” he said. His tone had shifted—more professional now, but still measured. Still watching her.

  “Enter,” came a gravel-lined voice from inside.

  The room beyond was dim, cool, efficient. Maps, dossiers, encrypted comms feeds. A war table disguised as an office.

  Captain Price didn’t rise to greet her. Just looked up, took her in with a glance sharper than a blade, then gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

  “Dawson,” he said.

  “Sir” She nodded, moving with silent efficiency. She stood in front of Price feet apart, wide stance, eyes locked on him. Professional. Controlled.

  Price watched her like a man who’d seen a thousand soldiers walk through his door—most of them too loud, too sure. She wasn’t.

  “I’ve gone through your file,” he began. No pleasantries, no small talk. “Multi-lingual, EOD certified, close-quarters training. Long-range weapons specialist. Excellent marksmanship scores—top one percent. You’ve been embedded in covert ops across Eastern Europe and West Africa. High-stakes recon. No extraction plans. Minimal support. You do well in the dirt.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, voice level.

  “You’ve been the eye on the scope for weeks at a time, locked into overwatch in terrain most people would go mad in. You’re patient. Quiet. And used to working alone.”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “Not anymore,” Price said, tone firm. “Task Force 141 doesn’t do lone wolf operations. Everything’s team-based. You’ll have to adjust.”

  She nodded once. “I understand.”

  He leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest.

  “This is a tight unit,” he said. “No room for drama, no tolerance for failure. We rely on each other. If one of us screws up, someone dies. Simple as that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll be expected to maintain readiness at all times. Physical fitness, mental discipline, gear integrity—all of it. We train hard, and we don’t hold your hand.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Price watched her for a beat longer. “There’s a lot of chatter about you,” he added. “Some say you’re cold. Difficult. Too rigid to play nice with others.”

  Her jaw tensed. Just a flicker.

  “I’m not here to play, sir,” she said. “I’m here to perform.”

  That earned a small nod. Not approval, exactly—but maybe the beginning of it.

  “You’ll be evaluated,” he said. “Not just on skills. On cohesion. We need operators who can shoot straight, think faster, and watch each other’s six without hesitation. If you can do that, you’ll earn your place. If not—”

  “I’ll be gone,” she finished. “I know the deal.”

  “Don’t expect the boys to go easy on you,” Price added, his tone slightly more measured now. “They don’t do pity. And they’ve got enough trauma on their plates. We pull each other through the fire, but no one’s carrying you unless you’re already bleeding out.”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Brat’s jaw tightened just a fraction. She nodded once. “Understood, sir.”

  Price stood. “Then let’s not waste time.”

  He opened the office door and gestured for her to follow. “Gaz will bring you up to speed on current operations. Then we’ll introduce you to the team.”

  Brat rose immediately, her posture still locked into sharp edges and discipline. No wasted motion.

  As she stepped into the hall beside them, her heart thudded once, heavy and slow. Not fear. Not nerves. Just weight—the kind you carry when you're trying to hold yourself together long enough to be seen for who you really are.

  The corridor smelled like bleach, rubber, and new beginnings. Brat followed Gaz through the winding halls of the base, duffel bouncing against her hip. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, and the walls were bare but humming with the energy of a place that saw more than it said.

  She was silent, mostly because she was still calibrating. Not nervous — not exactly — but that odd buzz behind the ribs that came with being the new one.

  Gaz glanced back at her. “You always this quiet?”

  She raised a brow, dry. “Only when I’m trying not to be a smartass.”

  That earned her a quick exhale — not quite a laugh, but close. “Good luck with that. You’ll have to talk eventually.”

  “Don’t rush me,” she said. “I’m building suspense.”

  He snorted and pushed open the door to the operations room. It was sharp and compact, like a brain in motion — maps, intel screens, and a central table stacked with mission folders and dossiers.

  Gaz motioned to the table. “Alright. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

  She dropped her duffel by a chair and leaned over the table, eyes scanning the terrain maps and flagged coordinates. This part — this was easy. A different kind of language, one she spoke fluently.

  “Arms cell moving through western Syria,” he said, pointing to a highlighted sector. “Civilians nearby, tight windows, tighter ROEs. We’re gonna need someone up high — long sightline, early warning.”

  Brat didn’t hesitate. “Ridge line here.” She tapped the map. “Good elevation, blind spot coverage, and if everything goes to shit, I can ghost out through the southern drop-off.”

  Gaz blinked. “You’ve worked this terrain before?”

  “Similar. Northern Iraq. Just with worse coffee and fewer trees.”

  He looked at her again — this time longer. “You’re recon and long-range?”

  “Long-range, covert, stakeouts. I’ve slept in dirt for seven days just to watch a guy tie his shoes. I’m very fun at parties.”

  He gave a half-smile, but his eyes were still guarded. “Yeah, I’ve heard you’re... colorful.”

  “Colorful,” she echoed, mouth tilting. “That what the paperwork says?”

  “That’s what the rumors say.”

  Brat leaned against the table; arms folded. “Let me guess. I’m insubordinate. Difficult. Possibly a hallucinating PTSD gremlin with a gun?”

  Gaz didn’t flinch. “Something like that.”

  She hummed. “Shame. I was going for ‘enigmatic and charming.’”

  He studied her, one brow ticking up like he wasn’t quite sure if she was kidding.

  She wasn’t entirely sure, either.

  “I know what people say,” she added, tone quieter now. “Most of it’s wrong. The rest of it’s... not the full story.”

  A beat passed between them. Then he reached out and flicked the mission folder shut.

  “We’ll see.”

  She grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

  Gaz turned toward the door. “Come on. Time to meet the rest of the circus.”

  “Are there snacks?”

  He gave her a look. “You really are a brat, huh?”

  “I warned you,” she said, falling in step beside him.

  They passed Captain Price in the hallway, who gave her a short nod. “We’ll debrief the team together.”

  Brat nodded back, a little more measured now. But her mind was racing.

  Soap. Ghost. The legends. She was walking into the lion’s den with a reputation and a rap sheet. And even if she played nice, she could feel the weight of their judgment lining up like crosshairs.

  As they neared the team’s prep bay, Brat let out a slow breath.

  Be sharp. Don’t overdo it. Don’t crack.

  She just wanted to be seen as a soldier again — not the broken story they passed around in whispers.

  But some part of her — the part that remembered the cold floor, the screaming, the blood — was already starting to claw its way to the surface.

  And it wouldn’t stay buried for long.