Chapter 837
It was a style she knew intimately. A style she had seen before, studied, and even faced in sparring sessions that left her bruised and breathless.
It was Jarrod’s style.
The core principles, the lethal economy of motion, the philosophy of control over brute force, it was identical. The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. They hadn’t just known each other. They were products of the same forge. Forged by the same hand, or in the same fire.
The photograph in his book was not a memento of a past romance. It was a marker of something deeper, something forged in a world of violence she was only just beginning to understand.
Sloane casually tossed the used handkerchief onto the ground. It landed in the dust a few inches from Melanie’s trembling hands.
She scanned the faces of the silent, terrified recruits. “Anyone else want some ‘guidance’?” she asked, her voice light and pleasant again.
No one moved. No one breathed. No one dared to meet her eyes.
Sloane nodded, satisfied. And then her gaze, for the last time, found Caroline’s. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. It was a declaration of victory, not over Melanie, but over Caroline’s clever maneuver.
Caroline met her gaze, her face an unreadable mask. But inside, a storm was gathering. A storm named Jarrod.
The dismissal was a sharp bark from Instructor Sharpe. “Hit the showers! Fall in for debrief in thirty!”
The formation broke, the recruits scattering with a palpable sense of relief, like prey escaping a predator’s gaze. They moved with a new, fearful respect, giving Sloane a wide berth.
Brenna appeared at Caroline’s side, her face pale. “That woman is a monster,” she whispered, her eyes still wide with shock. “Melanie… God, I almost feel sorry for her.”
Caroline gave a noncommittal nod, her mind a whirlwind. The similarity in fighting styles. It wasn’t a coincidence. It was a signature. A shared history written in the language of violence.
She knew she couldn’t let it go. She needed information, but going to Jarrod was out of the question. A direct confrontation would put her on the defensive. She needed leverage first. She needed intelligence.
An idea sparked. Dr. Evelyn Reed. The base’s chief medical officer. Competent, professional, and, as Caroline had noted during her last visit, fiercely loyal to Jarrod. A gatekeeper.
“I think I twisted my wrist during PT this morning,” Caroline said to Brenna, her voice a carefully constructed note of weary annoyance. “I should probably get it checked out.”
It was the perfect excuse. Brenna’s expression shifted from awe to concern. “Is it bad? Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, I’ll be fine,” Caroline said, already turning to walk away. “See you at the debrief.”
The walk to the infirmary was a mental rehearsal. She mapped out the conversation, the questions, the feints. She couldn’t ask about Sloane directly; that was too obvious. She had to probe the perimeter, looking for a weak spot in the defenses.