Chapter 5 - THE PRICE OF DRY GROUND
Marcus stood his ground in the mud, the river roaring just twenty yards away like an uncaged beast. The contractors had their weapons held at the low-ready position, their eyes hidden behind amber-tinted tactical goggles. Marcus was unarmed, isolated, and entirely outgunned.
"You blew the levee, Colonel," Marcus said, his voice cutting through the damp chill. "You used ordnance stolen from the reserve inventory to take down the flood wall."
Vance sighed, exhaling a breath that misted in the cold night air. He walked down the slick embankment with calculated, effortless balance, stopping ten paces from Marcus.
"Look at the map of this county, Marcus," Vance said, gesturing broadly toward the north, where the glittering, uninterrupted lights of the industrial manufacturing center and the deep-water commercial harbor shone against the clouds. "North Blackwood generates eighty percent of this region's GDP. Two international automotive plants, the rail nexus, the container ports. If the river took the north side, this county would have suffered three billion dollars in permanent economic devastation. Businesses would have fled. The tax base would have evaporated. This entire county would have died a slow, agonizing death."
"So you drowned the valley instead," Marcus countered, his jaw clenching so tight his teeth ached. "You drowned people who couldn't fight back. You drowned seventy-eight-year-old women and six-year-old kids while they slept in their beds."
"The south valley was already doomed, Marcus! You know the topography! It was a collection of crumbling houses, uninsured shacks, and defunct lumber mills. Nobody died! We coordinated the warnings; we had rescue assets pre-staged!"
"We were fifteen minutes away from burying twenty people under six feet of water!" Marcus shouted, stepping forward, his rage overriding caution. The two contractors raised their submachine guns in unison, lasers painting bright green dots against Marcus’s chest.
Vance raised a hand, signaling his men to hold. "You did your job, Sergeant. You were the hero. You pulled them out. The community has a symbol of hope. Everyone wins."
"And the stolen weapons?" Marcus challenged. "The night vision, the transceivers, the explosives Darryl was sent to recover from Ruth Coleman’s crawlspace? How does arms trafficking fit into your economic salvation plan?"
A momentary flicker of irritation crossed Vance's composed features. "Darryl is an idiot who exceeded his brief. The crate was emergency staging material. It was meant to be retrieved and neutralized quietly after the operation was concluded. Darryl panicked when the river rose faster than anticipated, and now he’s running around trying to liquidate assets to save his own skin." Vance paused, his eyes narrowing. "Which brings us to the present dilemma. Where is the case, Marcus?"
"At the bottom of the creek," Marcus said without blinking. "Darryl dropped it when the patrol car passed. It washed down toward the main basin."
Vance studied Marcus's face for five agonizing seconds. He gave a thin, patronizing smile. "You are an exceptional soldier, Marcus. But you are a terrible liar. You wouldn't leave high explosives floating toward civilian infrastructure. It's in your truck. Or stashed somewhere safe."
Vance took another step closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Here is what happens next. You deliver the case to my warehouse at the municipal airfield by dawn. In exchange, I ensure you receive a field promotion to Warrant Officer, an honorable transfer to the state logistics headquarters, and a direct discretionary reconstruction grant of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for your little pet project—Ruth Coleman and her granddaughter. They will get a brand new house, built on high ground, completely debt-free. Their lives improve exponentially."
"And if I say no?"
Vance’s smile vanished completely, replaced by an emptiness that Marcus recognized from battlefields abroad—the look of an officer who had already rationalized civilian collateral damage long ago.
"If you refuse, you become a casualty of the disaster cleanup," Vance said coldly. "Darryl is already being hunted by local enforcement as an armed looter. If he is found dead with military ordnance tied to your vehicle, the state narrative will be very clean: a decorated soldier went rogue, colluded with local criminals to loot flood zones, and perished in the crossfire. And as for the old woman and the little girl... well, without you, who will protect them when the bulldozers condemn their street?"
Vance turned on his heel and began walking back up the embankment toward his idling SUV.
"Six a.m., Sergeant Reyes. Municipal Airfield, Hangar 4. Bring the case. Don't make me erase everything you've ever built."
The two contractors lingered for a moment, their weapons trained on Marcus until Vance was inside the vehicle. Then, slipping backward into the shadows, they disappeared up the ridge.
Marcus stood alone in the dark, the cold rain soaking through his jacket. He looked down at his trembling hands—not from fear, but from the terrifying realization of how deep the conspiracy went. Vance controlled the National Guard command, the local emergency management council, and the county sheriff’s ear. Going to the police was suicide.
He pulled out his satellite phone—the one device Vance couldn't tap—and dialed a number he hadn't called in four years.
The line rang twice before a gravelly, female voice answered.
May you like
"Special Agent Miller, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Public Corruption Unit. Speak."
"Agent Miller," Marcus breathed, watching the red lights of Vance’s SUV disappear into the mist. "This is Staff Sergeant Marcus Reyes. You told me in Baghdad that if I ever saw an officer breaking the world, I should call you. The levee at Blackwood didn't fail. It was blown. And I have the detonators."
