Chapter 863
A cold knot of dread formed in Caroline’s stomach. This was a gamble, a desperate move with no guarantee of success. She didn’t know what Jarrod would do, but standing down was no longer an option.
They were halfway there, the imposing shape of the headquarters looming in the darkness, when a figure stepped out from an intersection, blocking their path.
K.C. Bell.
He stood like a statue, his face an emotionless mask. He rendered a sharp, formal salute to Sloane.
“Instructor Hawke,” he said, his voice a flat monotone. “Colonel Romero has directed me to handle this matter.”
Sloane’s triumphant smile froze on her face. A flicker of unease, of a premonition gone wrong, entered her eyes.
K.C. Bell then turned to Caroline. His tone was professional, impersonal, but his words were a lifeline.
“Trainee Thompson, your complaint has been received and logged. You are now ordered to proceed to the mess hall for your meal.”
He had cut the legs out from under Sloane’s plan with the cold, efficient precision of a surgeon.
The mess hall was an oasis of warmth and noise. Caroline slid her tray onto the table and sat down, her body slumping with the sudden release of tension. The smell of stew and fresh bread was intoxicating.
Brenna awkwardly slid in across from her, struggling to maneuver with only one good hand. Her right arm was cradled in a sling, the fresh white cast encasing her hand and forearm a constant, throbbing reminder of Melanie’s attack. Her face, already pale with worry for Caroline, was drawn tight with the persistent ache radiating from the shattered bones.
“Hawke is a psychopath,” Brenna whispered fiercely, leaning across the table. “What gives her the right to treat you like that? It’s not training, it’s a vendetta.”
Caroline didn’t answer. She picked up her spoon and began to eat, her movements slow and deliberate. Her body was a furnace burning through fuel, and she needed to replenish it. Every bite was a small victory against the calculated starvation Sloane had intended for her.
At the instructors’ table a few yards away, a similar conversation was taking place, though much more subdued.
Instructor Reynolds pushed a piece of meat around her plate, her brow furrowed. She looked at Veronica Sharpe. “You saw it, Veronica. Sloane’s gone too far. This is personal.”
Sharpe chewed methodically, her expression unreadable. “She’s the lead instructor. We follow her orders.”
“That wasn’t an order, it was a lynching,” Reynolds countered, her voice low and urgent. “If Thompson actually files a formal complaint with the Inspector General, we’ll all be caught in the fallout. Our careers could be on the line for standing by and watching.”
Sharpe’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. The logic in Reynolds’s words hit home. She finally looked up, her eyes troubled. “Then let’s hope she’s not that smart.”
But she was. And they both knew it.
Miles away, in the highest observation tower on the base, K.C. Bell had just returned.