Part 1

Tanisha Cole had worn her uncle’s old Army patch for years without a second thought—until a pilot froze at the sight of it and whispered a name she wasn’t supposed to know.

Tanisha’s gloves were slick with oil, but she didn’t stop. Her rag moved in precise, practiced circles over the long steel housing of the M230 chain gun. The air inside the Fort Hood hangar was heavy with that familiar metallic bite—the kind that clings to your clothes long after you’ve clocked out. Somewhere in the corner, a portable radio played an old R&B track so softly it was more memory than sound.

This was her world: tools laid out in a neat row, checklist clipped to the cart—no drama. Until she heard the boots.

They weren’t just walking; they had that sharp, no‑hesitation pace of someone who belonged here—someone in charge. Tanisha kept her head down, flipping the rag to a clean side, but in her peripheral vision she caught the khaki flight suit and the patch‑covered sleeve.

“Afternoon, Cole,” Chief Warrant Officer Daniel Ryker said. His voice was even, almost bored.

She gave him a nod without looking up. “Afternoon, sir. I’m just wrapping up the cleaning cycle on this one.”

His boots came closer. She heard him set a clipboard on the maintenance bench, but he didn’t speak right away. He didn’t even move.

Something about the stillness made her glance up. He wasn’t looking at the gun. His eyes were fixed on her left arm, just above the elbow, where the sleeve of her coveralls was rolled once to keep from catching on machinery.

Tanisha followed his gaze. The patch—old, darker around the edges where the stitching had frayed. The once‑bright thread now muted: black eagle wings wrapped around a lightning bolt over a mountain silhouette. She’d sewn it there herself two years ago after finding it in a box of her uncle’s things. She liked the way it looked. That was it.

Ryker’s hand—halfway to the clipboard—stayed in midair. His jaw shifted once, like he’d just bitten into something sour.

“Where’d you get that?” His tone was sharper now.

Tanisha blinked. “The patch? It was my uncle’s. Why?”

He stepped closer, close enough for her to see the lines around his eyes. “What was your uncle’s name?”

“Rodney Cole. He did two tours in Afghanistan back in the early two‑thousands. Passed… died about six years ago.”

Ryker didn’t answer. He just stared at the patch, his breathing slower, more measured.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

He finally looked up at her, but his expression didn’t match the casual voice he tried to put on. “That insignia—you don’t see it around anymore. That’s from a unit that got deactivated a long time ago.”

“Deactivated?”

“Yeah. Officially, they never existed.” He leaned one hand on the bench. “Who gave you permission to wear it?”

That made her frown. “It’s just a patch, sir. I didn’t think I needed permission for something personal.”

Ryker exhaled through his nose, but it wasn’t a laugh. “You might be surprised.”

The silence stretched long enough for her to notice the radio had gone to static. She reached over, switched it off, and looked back at him.

“If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

For a moment he seemed like he might. His mouth opened just slightly… then he closed it again. Without another word, he grabbed the clipboard, signed at the bottom of the maintenance form, and set it down hard enough to make the pen roll. When he finally walked away, he didn’t look back.

Tanisha stared at the empty doorway, her hand still on the rag. She’d been in the Army long enough to know the difference between someone making conversation and someone trying not to. Ryker had seen something that shook him—but not enough to explain why.

She ran her thumb over the patch. She’d never asked her aunt much about it—never thought there was anything to ask. Uncle Rodney was proud of his service, but like a lot of vets, he kept the details locked away. If this was some rare insignia from a forgotten unit, it didn’t change the fact that it was hers now. And yet the way Ryker looked at it wouldn’t leave her alone.

Tanisha wiped her hands, logged the maintenance check, and put the rag back on the cart. But as she pushed it toward the next Apache, her mind stuck on one thing: that split second before he spoke, when his eyes stayed frozen on her sleeve—like the patch itself had just whispered in his ear.

She didn’t know this would only be the first time today someone would look at that patch like it was more than fabric.

Tanisha didn’t expect to see Ryker again that day. Pilots had their own rhythm—briefings, simulator sessions, flight schedules—and it rarely intersected with her maintenance window unless something was urgent.

But not twenty minutes after he’d walked out, the same measured bootsteps echoed back across the hangar floor. She kept working, replacing a worn feeder assembly on the gun’s belt system. The sound of his approach stopped right behind her.

“You got a minute?” he asked.

Tanisha set the wrench down and turned. “Sure.”

Ryker’s expression was unreadable, like he was trying to keep every muscle in his face under control. “I don’t usually ask personal questions, but I’m going to make an exception. When exactly did you get that patch?”

Her eyebrows rose. “You’re still on that?”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing toward the open hangar door, scanning for anyone nearby. “Humor me.”

She leaned back against the workbench. “Couple years ago, I was helping my aunt clear out storage after she moved from San Antonio to Temple. Found a box with some of my uncle’s uniforms, medals, and that patch. Thought it looked cool, so I sewed it on. End of story.”

Ryker’s gaze locked on hers, like he was measuring every syllable. “Rodney Cole—you said he served in Afghanistan.”

“Yes. Twice.”

“Do you know which unit?”

“Not exactly. My aunt mentioned something about him working with another branch, maybe even special ops, but nothing detailed. Why does it matter?”

Instead of answering, Ryker walked around to the other side of the Apache, checked the tail number like he was pretending to have a reason to linger, then came back.

“Cole, that unit the patch is from—they weren’t just special ops. They were part of something called Operation Red Lantern.”

She tilted her head. “Never heard of it.”

“You wouldn’t have,” he said, voice dropping. “It’s not in public records. Hell, most of the Army doesn’t even know about it. What they did… let’s just say it stays classified for decades. And the people who wore that patch? All of them are supposed to be dead.”

Tanisha stared at him, unsure if he was trying to scare her—or making a twisted joke. “That’s… ridiculous. You’re telling me my uncle was part of some ghost unit? Come on.”

Ryker didn’t smile. “I’m telling you that patch shouldn’t exist anymore. And wearing it—it’s not just bad luck. It’s like walking around with a target on your arm.”

Her first instinct was to laugh it off, but something in his tone kept her mouth shut.

“So what do you want me to do—rip it off and burn it?”

“That would be a start,” he said flatly.

Tanisha crossed her arms. “Not happening. It’s a piece of my family. You think I’m going to destroy the only thing I have from my uncle just because it makes you uncomfortable?”

Ryker glanced toward the hangar entrance again. Two mechanics walked past. He waited until they were out of earshot.

“I’m not saying this to be dramatic. You have no idea the kind of people who keep tabs on symbols like that. If someone saw it who knew what it meant—someone who wasn’t friendly—you could have a lot more than me asking questions.”

She took a step closer, lowering her voice. “You keep talking like you know more than you’re saying. So why not just tell me?”

His jaw worked for a second before he spoke. “Because I’m not sure who’s listening. And if I’m wrong, I’ve wasted both our time. But if I’m right, you’re in the middle of something that could get messy.”

That hung between them like static.

“I’m still not taking it off,” she said finally.

He gave a short, humorless laugh, then turned and walked toward the hangar exit without another word.

Tanisha watched him go, her stomach tightening. She didn’t like being told what to do—especially by someone who couldn’t back up a warning with facts. But the way he kept glancing over his shoulder made it impossible to dismiss entirely.

She shook her head and went back to work. But her hands weren’t moving with their usual confidence. Every time she looked down at the patch, Ryker’s words came back: supposed to be dead.

She had no idea that before the end of the day someone else would show up—with even more questions and far less patience.

Part 2

By mid‑afternoon, the Texas sun poured through the open hangar doors in that blinding, white‑hot way that makes even metal seem to sweat. Tanisha moved on to inventory checks, counting parts in their foam‑lined cases, trying to focus on numbers instead of Ryker’s words.

She was halfway through the belt‑fed ammo crate tally when the echo of voices caught her ear. Not inside the hangar—outside, just past the threshold, somewhere in the narrow strip of shade between the building and the maintenance office. She recognized one immediately: Ryker. The other voice was lower, harder to make out.

“Told you. I saw it myself,” Ryker was saying. “Left arm, coveralls. Same eagle, same bolt.”

The second voice answered in a quick, clipped tone. “You sure? Could be a copy—plenty of surplus floating around.”

“Not this one,” Ryker replied, sharper now. “This isn’t something you find at a flea market. And if she’s wearing it, someone gave it to her for a reason.”

Tanisha froze—one hand still in the crate. Her first thought was to step back and make noise so they’d know she could hear them. Curiosity pinned her to the spot.

“You think she knows what it means?” the lower voice asked.

“No,” Ryker said without hesitation. “She looked confused. But that doesn’t matter. If the wrong person sees it—”

The other man cut him off. “You want me to put it in the report?”

“Not yet,” Ryker said, tone softening—but only slightly. “Let me talk to her again first. But if she doesn’t listen, it’s your call.”

Footsteps moved away.

Tanisha straightened, mind spinning. She’d never been the subject of a conversation that felt this dangerous. They weren’t just talking about uniform regulations. They were talking like the patch was a security risk—or worse.

The door opened at the far end of the hangar. Ryker stepped inside, eyes scanning automatically before landing on her. His face didn’t change, but the hesitation in his walk told her he knew she’d heard something.

“Everything good over here?” he asked.

“Depends,” she said, setting the crate lid down with more force than she meant to. “You always talk about me to people outside the hangar?”

He stopped a few feet away, expression flat. “You were listening.”

“I was working,” she shot back. “Your voices carried.”

Ryker rubbed the bridge of his nose like a man regretting a decision. “Look, Cole, I was trying to keep you out of something—not pull you into it.”

“Then stop talking in circles and say what’s going on.”

He glanced toward the wide‑open hangar doors again. When he spoke, his voice was lower than before. “There are units in the military history books, and then there are the ones that never make it there. Red Lantern was one of the latter. The patch you’re wearing—it was their emblem. The fact that you have it is already strange. The fact that you’re wearing it in plain sight… that’s dangerous.”

She let out a short laugh that sounded more like disbelief than humor. “Dangerous how? What do you think is going to happen—someone’s going to detain me for wearing an old piece of fabric?”

“You’d be surprised who notices details like that,” he said. “And when they do, they won’t ask questions first.”

The stubborn part of her wanted to push back again, to say she wouldn’t live her life afraid of shadows. But the truth was, she could feel something tightening in her gut—the same feeling she’d get before a sudden storm, when the air got heavier without warning.

Ryker must have seen it on her face, because his voice softened. “If you won’t take it off, at least be aware of who’s watching you.”

“Who’s watching me?”

He didn’t answer. He gave her a slow nod, turned, and walked back out the way he’d come.

Tanisha stood there, the echo of his words still in her ears. Maybe he was exaggerating. Maybe he was trying to spook her into compliance. But deep down, she knew he wasn’t the kind of man to waste breath on empty warnings.

She closed the crate, locked it, and signed off the inventory log. Still, every time she bent to grab another part, her eyes flicked toward the hangar door—half expecting someone else to appear with more cryptic advice.

The next person who came looking for her wouldn’t bother with advice. They’d come asking for the patch itself.

By the time Tanisha left the hangar that evening, the heat outside felt baked straight through the concrete. Her coveralls clung to her shoulders, the patch warm under the fabric. She didn’t bother with the shuttle; the barracks were a short walk, and she needed time to think. Every step brought her back to Ryker’s voice: target on your arm—and to that overheard conversation.

It’s one thing to be the subject of military gossip. It’s another to hear your name wrapped around words like dangerous and classified.

She pushed open the barracks door. A blast of air‑conditioning hit her like a wall. The common room smelled faintly of reheated pizza and floor cleaner. A few soldiers lounged on mismatched couches, flipping channels on the TV. Her roommate, Janelle Ruiz, sat cross‑legged at the coffee table, playing cards with two others.

“Hey,” Janelle said without looking up. “You’re late. Everything break down today, or what?”

Tanisha dropped onto the couch opposite her, pulling off her cap. “Nope. Just had a weird conversation.”

Janelle finally looked up, catching the serious tone. “Weird how?”

Tanisha tugged at her sleeve just enough to glance at the patch. “About this.”

The guy sitting next to Janelle—Private First Class Mark Gibbons—leaned in. “That old patch? Didn’t think you were the type to customize.”

“It was my uncle’s,” Tanisha said. “Wore it for years. Nobody’s ever said a thing—until today.”

She told them about Ryker—about the way he’d stared at it like it carried a curse—and about the whispered conversation she’d overheard. She kept her tone even, but an edge crept in.

Janelle set her cards down. “Okay, so he says it’s from some ghost unit, and now you’re supposed to what—just take it off?”

“Apparently,” Tanisha said.

Mark shook his head. “Sounds like superstition mixed with paranoia. Units get deactivated all the time. Maybe he’s just one of those guys who lives on conspiracy forums.”

“Except he didn’t sound like he was making it up,” Tanisha said. “And the guy he was talking to didn’t sound like a jokester either.”

One of the other soldiers—a quiet specialist named Devin Price—looked up from his phone. “You ever think maybe you don’t want to know what it means? Sometimes the less you ask, the better you sleep.”

Tanisha’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying I should just ignore someone basically telling me I’m wearing a target?”

“I’m saying,” Devin replied, “if it’s real, there’s probably a reason it’s classified. And if it’s fake, you’re stressing over nothing.”

Janelle crossed her arms. “Personally, I’d find out. If someone drops cryptic hints about my family, I’m not letting it go.”

Tanisha leaned back. “That’s the thing—Ryker said everyone from that unit was supposed to be dead. If that’s true, then my uncle…” She trailed off.

The table went quiet. Janelle finally broke it. “Maybe your aunt knows more than she’s told you.”

The thought lodged itself in Tanisha’s mind instantly. She hadn’t asked her aunt much over the years—the topic of Uncle Rodney’s service had always been handled with polite silence. If anyone could confirm or deny Ryker’s story, it would be her.

She stood, grabbing her phone. “I’ll call her after chow.”

Mark gave her a look halfway between concern and curiosity. “If she tells you it’s nothing, will you believe her?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Tanisha said.

The rest of the evening passed in pieces—the clatter of trays in the mess hall, lazy conversation about weekend plans, the faint hum of the barracks TV. But beneath it all, the weight of the patch on her sleeve felt heavier than it had that morning.

Back in her room, sitting cross‑legged on her bunk, phone in hand, she rehearsed what to say. Her thumb hovered over the call button.

A knock on the barracks door brought a different kind of answer—and it wouldn’t come from her aunt.

The knock wasn’t casual. It was the kind of firm, three‑tap rhythm that makes you straighten in your seat without knowing why.

Janelle looked up from her book across the room, one eyebrow raised. “You expecting someone?”

Tanisha shook her head and slid off the bunk. When she opened the door, two men stood in the hallway. Neither wore a uniform, but both had the posture of people who’d spent their lives in one. The taller one wore a navy windbreaker despite the heat, haircut sharp enough to line up with a ruler. The other wore a plain gray button‑down, sleeves rolled once, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses—indoors.

“Specialist Cole?” the tall one asked.

“That’s me.”

He held up a leather case just long enough for her to catch the flash of a badge and an ID she didn’t have time to read. “We’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

Janelle was on her feet now, crossing the room. “About what?”

The man in the sunglasses answered instead. “It’s regarding a personal item in your possession. Might be easier to discuss somewhere private.”

Tanisha glanced from one to the other. “If you’re talking about the patch, you can say it right here.”

They exchanged a look that said they weren’t used to being refused. The windbreaker man sighed. “Ma’am, this would go a lot smoother if we could sit down without an audience.”

Janelle folded her arms. “She’s not going anywhere without telling me first.”

Sunglasses ignored her and focused on Tanisha. “The patch you’re wearing—where did you get it?”

“I already answered that question today,” she said evenly. “My uncle’s. A couple years ago.”

“And you’ve been wearing it since?”

“Yeah. Why?”

This time the taller man took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Because that insignia belongs to a disbanded unit—highly classified. We’re talking clearance levels above either of ours. It should have been destroyed with the rest of their equipment.”

Tanisha kept her gaze steady. “So why are you here—to confiscate it?”

“That would be best,” Sunglasses said. “It’s safer for you.”

Her hands curled at her sides. “Not happening. It’s family.”

The tall man’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t raise his voice. “Specialist Cole, I need you to understand—keeping that patch could put you in a position you do not want to be in. People have been hurt over less.”

That got Janelle moving. She stepped between them, her voice sharper than usual. “She said she’s not giving it up. If you’ve got a problem, go through her CO.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Sunglasses reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. He set it on the small table by the door. “If you change your mind, call that number. Do it sooner rather than later.”

Without another word, they turned and walked away—their footsteps fading down the hall.

Tanisha shut the door and leaned against it.

“What was that?” Janelle asked. “Because I’ve never had guys in plain clothes come sniffing around for a patch.”

Tanisha picked up the card. No name. No agency. Just a phone number and the words: Contact directly. Urgent matters only. She set it back down, thoughts tangling faster than she could untangle them. Ryker’s warning. The overheard conversation. Two strangers telling her to hand over something that had been hers for years.

“You still think it’s nothing?” Janelle asked.

Tanisha didn’t answer right away. Her mind was already moving toward the next step. If these guys were telling the truth, her aunt might be the only one left who could explain why a piece of her uncle’s service history had suddenly turned into a liability.

“I need to make that call,” she said.

What her aunt would reveal wouldn’t make her feel safer. It would make her realize she’d been carrying more than just a memory on her sleeve.

Tanisha sat on the edge of her bunk, phone pressed to her ear, the dial tone pulsing against the quiet. Janelle lingered by the desk, pretending to check email but clearly listening in.

Her aunt picked up on the fourth ring. “Hey, baby. Everything all right?”

“Yeah. Sort of,” Tanisha said. “I need to ask you something about Uncle Rodney.”

A pause. “What about him?”

“You remember that patch I sewed on my coveralls—the one from his stuff?”

Her aunt’s voice sharpened. “Why? Did somebody say something about it?”

“More than one somebody,” Tanisha said. “First a pilot. Then two guys in plain clothes showed up at the barracks asking for it. They acted like it’s radioactive—said it belonged to a unit that’s supposed to be gone. Like completely gone.”

The line went quiet—long enough for Tanisha to glance at the screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.

“Aunt Lorraine?”

“I told him this might happen,” her aunt said finally, voice lower now. “I told your uncle he shouldn’t keep any of it. But he wouldn’t listen.”

Tanisha felt her chest tighten. “Keep any of what?”

“That patch is from the 17th Reconnaissance Detachment,” Lorraine said. “Only… that’s not what they called themselves in the field. They went by Red Lantern.”

Tanisha’s grip on the phone tightened. “Ryker mentioned that name. Said no one outside the unit is supposed to know about it.”

“That’s because what they were doing wasn’t supposed to exist,” Lorraine said. “Your uncle wasn’t just on patrols or regular missions. They were sent to find things—people, equipment, documents—before anyone else could. Sometimes before our own side could. And when they found them, they didn’t always bring them back.”

“You mean they destroyed them?”

“Destroyed. Buried. Made disappear. Whatever it took,” Lorraine said. “It was dangerous work, and when something went wrong, there was no backup coming. Officially, they weren’t even there.”

Tanisha didn’t know what to say. The image of her uncle she’d carried all her life—quiet, patient, the kind of man who fixed your bike without being asked—didn’t line up with the man her aunt was describing.

“So why do people care so much about a patch?” Tanisha asked.

“Because it’s proof,” Lorraine said simply. “Proof the unit existed. Proof your uncle survived long enough to bring something home. If someone’s looking for it, it’s because they don’t want that proof floating around.”

A knot of unease twisted deeper. “You think someone would hurt me over it?”

“I think people have done worse for less,” Lorraine said. “If those men told you to hand it over, maybe you should.”

Tanisha stared down at her sleeve. “I can’t. It’s the only piece of him I have left.”

Her aunt’s voice softened. “Baby, your uncle loved you. He wouldn’t want you in danger over something he left behind.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because I thought if you didn’t know, no one else would care,” Lorraine said. “Clearly, I was wrong.”

They talked a few minutes more—mostly her aunt repeating that she should get rid of it—before Tanisha promised to think about it and ended the call.

When she set the phone down, Janelle was watching her closely.

“So?”

“Ryker wasn’t lying,” Tanisha said. “The patch is from a classified unit. My uncle was in it. And apparently, it’s more than just an old piece of cloth—it’s proof of something the Army wants erased.”

Janelle frowned. “Which means keeping it is asking for trouble.”

“Yeah,” Tanisha said quietly. “But giving it up feels like losing him all over again.”

She traced the edge of the patch. She’d thought the day’s weirdness would fade. Instead, it was getting heavier—like a weight sliding deeper into her pocket.

Before she could decide what to do, she started noticing the eyes. The ones that didn’t look away when she caught them watching.

The first time, she told herself it was coincidence. She was heading from the mess hall to the motor pool, coffee in hand, when she spotted a man leaning against a tan Humvee near the corner of the lot—dark ball cap, aviator sunglasses, hands tucked casually into his pockets. Nothing unusual, except his head turned to follow her the entire way across the pavement.

The second time, she couldn’t write it off. She was running a routine parts pickup from the supply depot—arms full of boxed components—when she caught the same ball cap and glasses in the reflection of the depot’s glass door. He was sitting on a bench under a tree, pretending to scroll his phone.

By the third sighting, the knot in her gut wasn’t subtle. After sunset, the base quieted down. She and Janelle were walking back from the PX, bags swinging at their sides, when Janelle suddenly slowed.

“Don’t turn around,” she murmured. “Guy in a ball cap, about fifty feet back. Same direction as us.”

Tanisha didn’t have to look. She already knew. “You’ve seen him too?”

“Yeah. Yesterday near the gym,” Janelle said. “You think he’s following you?”

“Feels like it.”

When they reached the barracks, Tanisha made a show of fumbling for her keycard while Janelle unlocked the door. She risked a quick glance over her shoulder. The man was across the street now, leaning against a lamppost, face tipped down toward his phone again.

Inside, Janelle locked the door. “Okay, that’s it. We’re talking to Ryker. If he knows this patch is a problem, he needs to tell you how deep it goes.”

Tanisha hesitated. “What if he’s part of the problem?”

“Then at least we’ll know,” Janelle said. “Better than playing blind.”

Part 3

The next afternoon, she found Ryker in a small briefing room, hunched over a laptop. He looked up when she stepped inside, eyes flicking immediately to her sleeve.

“Cole,” he said slowly. “You decide to take my advice?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “I’ve got a better question. Why is someone tailing me all over base?”

Ryker’s chair squeaked as he leaned back. “Describe him.”

“Ball cap. Sunglasses. Average build. Likes to pretend he’s busy on his phone.”

Ryker’s face darkened. “You’ve seen him more than once?”

“Three times in two days. And I’m pretty sure that’s just when I noticed.”

He closed the laptop and stood. “That’s not random.”

“You think it’s connected to the patch?”

“I think it’s connected to whoever still cares about Red Lantern,” he said. “And if they’ve got someone following you here, they’re not worried about protocol—which means they’re not military police. They’re outside the chain of command.”

“So now what?” she asked. “You want me to hand the patch over to the guys in plain clothes who showed up at my door?”

Ryker shook his head. “No. Not them. If you’re smart, you’ll get it to someone who can actually protect you—and not the kind who’ll just make it disappear.”

“Like who?”

“I know a contact,” he said. “Off‑base. Civilian. Knows the history, knows the stakes. But we’d have to move quietly. If your shadow sees you leaving with me, we’ve got a bigger problem.”

Tanisha studied him. His voice was steady, but urgency flickered in his eyes. “And why help me?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was short. “Because I’ve seen what happens to people caught in the middle of this. I don’t want to read your name in a report.”

She hated that a part of her believed him. “Fine. But if we’re doing this, it’s on my terms. I’m not handing over my uncle’s legacy to someone I’ve never met.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “But don’t wait too long. Your shadow’s not going to get bored and move on.”

Deciding quickly wouldn’t be enough. Once she said yes, the clock on that meeting would start ticking in ways she couldn’t control.

Tanisha spent most of the night lying awake, the barracks ceiling a pale blur above her. Every time she shut her eyes, she pictured the man in the ball cap—just far enough away to blend in, just close enough to make sure she knew.

By morning, she’d made up her mind. Waiting wasn’t going to make the problem smaller.

She found Ryker in the hangar, standing by the open cockpit of the Apache she’d serviced earlier in the week. He looked up as she approached, reading her decision before she spoke.

“When?” she asked.

“Tonight,” he said. “No later. If your friend in the cap is working shifts, odds are he won’t be on late watch two nights in a row. That’s our best shot.”

“How do we do this without making it obvious?”

“You’ll leave through the back motor‑pool entrance after chow,” he said, gesturing toward a duffel by his feet. “I’ll swing by in my truck. No uniforms. No base gear—except the patch. Once we’re off post, we drive straight to a diner outside Killeen. My contact meets us there.”

“And I’m supposed to trust this contact?”

“You’ll trust them because I do,” Ryker said, tone flat. “And because they’re the only one who can take that patch without it vanishing into some evidence locker you never see again.”

She wanted to push back, to point out this entire plan was built on blind faith. But the truth was, she’d run out of better options. The man in the ball cap wasn’t going to vanish on his own.

“Fine,” she said. “But I’m keeping it in sight the whole time.”

“That’s fair,” Ryker said. “Ready for the part where we keep our heads down?”

“I’ve been ready since those plain‑clothes guys knocked on my door.”

The rest of the day passed in slow, dragging increments. Every conversation felt like it had a second meaning. Every laugh from across the room felt a shade too aware of her. She stayed in the mess hall longer than usual, eating in short, distracted bites while watching the doorway.

After dinner, she changed into jeans and a plain hoodie. She carefully removed the patch from her coveralls and stitched it to the sleeve of her casual jacket. Hands in her pockets, she slipped out the rear exit near the motor pool and kept her pace steady until she reached the shadowed side lot.

Headlights flashed once. Ryker’s truck rolled forward, passenger door unlocked. She climbed in without a word. He pulled out, taking a back route toward the gate, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror more often than the road.

“Anyone behind us?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “We won’t relax until we’re there.”

The ride was quiet except for the hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional sigh from Ryker as he checked his mirrors. Streetlights gave way to long stretches of dark road until the glow of a highway exit sign appeared.

The diner was an unremarkable, squat building with a faded neon sign buzzing faintly in the night air. A handful of cars dotted the lot. Ryker parked near the side, far from the entrance.

“We go in, sit by the window,” he said. “My contact walks in alone. If anything feels off, we walk right back out.”

Tanisha’s hand brushed the patch through her sleeve as they stepped inside. The air smelled of coffee and fried onions. A waitress in a red apron nodded them toward a booth. They sat, ordered nothing, and waited.

They wouldn’t have to wait long.

The bell over the door gave a dull chime, barely loud enough to cut through the hum of conversation and clink of dishes. A man in his late forties stepped inside—tall, wiry frame, close‑cropped hair gone silver at the temples, plain brown jacket over a faded T‑shirt. His eyes scanned the room once—taking in everything without lingering on anyone.

“That him?” Tanisha asked quietly.

Ryker nodded. “Name’s Patrick Sloan.”

Sloan didn’t head straight for them. He took a slow route past the counter, glanced at the specials board like he might order a meal, then turned toward their booth. When he reached them, he didn’t sit.

“You have it?” he asked, voice low but firm.

Tanisha shifted, keeping her arm against her side. “Before we get to that—who exactly are you?”

Sloan’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “I used to be in the same unit as your uncle. Different op. Same insignia. I got out before things went sideways.”

“What does ‘sideways’ mean?” she pressed.

“It means the kind of work we did started making enemies we weren’t allowed to acknowledge,” Sloan said. “When the mission ended, the people in charge decided the cleanest way to tie it up was to erase it completely—patches, records, personnel, everything.”

Ryker motioned toward the seat across from them. “Sit down before someone notices we’re conducting a history lesson in public.”

Sloan slid into the booth. His eyes flicked to the patch on Tanisha’s sleeve. “That right there—some people would pay a lot of money to get it back. Others would do a lot worse than that.”

“You’re not exactly reassuring me,” Tanisha said.

“I’m not here to reassure you,” Sloan replied. “I’m here to take it somewhere safe. There are people who still care about what happened to your uncle’s unit—people who’d rather see the truth documented than buried.”

“How do I know you’re not one of the ones who wants it buried?”

“You don’t,” Sloan admitted. “Only thing I can offer is this: if I wanted it gone, you’d never have seen me walk through that door.”

Ryker leaned forward. “We’re on the clock. If you’re going to make the handoff, now’s the time.”

The air between them felt heavy. Tanisha’s hand brushed the patch again. A flash of her uncle’s smile—grainy from an old photo—crossed her mind. She pulled her arm free from her jacket sleeve and laid the patch flat on the table.

Sloan reached for it—

A low rumble of an engine cut through the diner’s background noise. Headlights swept the front windows. A dark SUV rolled slowly past, tinted windows reflecting the neon sign.

Ryker’s voice dropped to a razor’s edge. “We’ve got company.”

Sloan’s hand stopped halfway to the patch. His eyes didn’t move from the table, but his voice was tight. “Did they follow you here?”

“I don’t think so,” Ryker said. “But I’ve seen that vehicle on base before.”

Tanisha glanced at the SUV as it idled near the curb. Her stomach knotted. The silhouette of the driver’s head looked awfully familiar under that ball cap.

Sloan’s jaw set. “Change of plan. Slide it over.”

She hesitated.

“If they’re watching, they already are,” Sloan said. “If they see me leave with you, that’s worse. I’ll go out the back. You two wait five minutes, then head out the front like nothing happened.”

Ryker gave a sharp nod.

Tanisha pushed the patch across the table. Sloan took it, tucking it under his jacket in one fluid motion before sliding out of the booth. He moved toward the back hallway without looking around once.

A moment later, the SUV’s engine revved—tires crunching against gravel as it rolled toward the alley beside the diner.

Ryker tapped the table twice—a silent signal to stay still. They sat in silence. The clatter of dishes and low conversations around them felt miles away. Five minutes never felt so long.

When they finally stepped outside, they didn’t find Sloan waiting. They found something else entirely—and it made the patch’s danger crystal clear.

Part 4

The night air outside the diner carried the faint tang of gasoline from the nearby highway. Ryker stepped out first, scanning the lot with the casual posture of someone who wasn’t actually casual at all. Tanisha followed, her eyes drawn to the spot where Sloan’s car had been.

It wasn’t there.

What was there: a set of tire marks cutting sharp from the back alley into the street, and the distant flash of red taillights turning out of sight.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“Gone,” Ryker said, without hesitation. “And not because he wanted to be.”

They crossed to the alley. The smell of burned rubber hit her before she saw the rest: a coffee cup lying on its side, its contents still dripping into the gutter, and a dark scuff on the brick where something heavy had scraped.

Tanisha crouched to pick up the cup, pulse quickening. “You think they grabbed him?”

“I think your shadow’s bosses finally decided they’d waited long enough,” Ryker said grimly. “If they’ve got Sloan, that patch isn’t just gone—it’s wherever they want it to be now.”

The knot in her chest tightened until it was hard to breathe. “So all of this for nothing?”

Ryker shook his head. “Not nothing. You learned something tonight. You learned your uncle’s past was real. And you learned that some truths are worth enough to make people disappear.”

They headed back toward the truck, each step heavier than the last. Neither spoke until they were on the road again, the diner fading into the rearview.

“Why would they care so much?” Tanisha asked finally. “It’s just a patch. It’s not like it proves anything without the story.”

“That’s the thing,” Ryker said. “In the right hands, it does prove something—that Red Lantern existed, that someone got out, and that the operation wasn’t as airtight as the brass claimed. For some people, that’s enough to unravel a whole narrative they’ve spent years building.”

Tanisha stared out at the blur of highway lights. “So now what? Do I just move on—pretend this never happened?”

Ryker exhaled slowly. “That’s your call. But I’ll say this: there’s a reason some people spend their lives chasing the truth, even when it costs them. The world has enough folks who’d rather look the other way. We need a few who won’t.”

Her hands tightened in her lap. She thought about her aunt’s warning, about the stubborn pride in her uncle’s eyes in that old photo, about Sloan’s calm certainty in the booth. All of them made their choices.

When they reached the base, Ryker pulled into the side lot. “Keep your head down for a while,” he said. “No more patches. No more surprises. And if you see that SUV again, call me first.”

She opened the door, then turned back. “Thanks—for not just looking the other way.”

He met her gaze, gave a small nod, and drove off.

Part 5

Inside the barracks, Janelle was waiting, pacing the floor. “You okay?”

Tanisha dropped her jacket onto the bed. The empty space on the sleeve looked sharper under the light. “I’m fine. But things are different now.”

Janelle studied her. “Different how?”

“Because I know,” Tanisha said simply. “And once you know, you can’t unknow. You either live with it, or you do something about it.”

She didn’t say what something meant. She wasn’t sure yet herself.

But as she lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, one thing was clear: the patch might be gone, but the truth it carried was still hers. And truth has a way of sticking around.

Some stories in life don’t end neatly. They end with choices—what we hold on to, what we let go of, and whether the risk of knowing is worth the weight it puts on your shoulders.

Tanisha’s lesson was simple, but it came at a price: the past has power, and it will pull you in if you let it. The question is, when it does, will you stand your ground or turn away?

If you’re still here reading, you know which one matters. Don’t let the truths that matter disappear without a fight. If you want more stories that pull back the curtain on the things people don’t talk about, follow along—there’s more to come.