Chapter 848
That complete and utter dismissal, the implication that Melanie wasn’t even worth a glance, was more infuriating than any curse word could have been. A flash of rage crossed Melanie’s face. She bit her lip, spun around, and sprinted toward the finish line, fueled by a fresh surge of angry adrenaline.
She was the first to cross, throwing her uninjured left arm up in a gesture of triumph while her broken right hand remained trapped against her chest. Beatrix followed a few seconds behind her, expression cool, pace controlled, offering neither alliance nor applause.
Sloane Hawke stood at the finish, a stopwatch in her hand. Her face was a mask of cold indifference. She clicked the button on her watch as Melanie passed, her eyes never leaving the device. She offered no praise, no acknowledgment, not even a nod.
The victory turned to ash in Melanie’s mouth. The applause she had expected was a dead silence. Humiliation washed over her, hot and bitter. Her eyes, filled with venom, turned back down the trail to find the source of all her frustrations.
Just then, a new sound cut through the night. The low, powerful growl of an engine.
Headlights swept across the clearing as a black, military-grade SUV sped up the base access road. Inside the vehicle, Jarrod Romero sat in the back seat, his gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the window, his jaw a hard line. K.C. Bell was at the wheel.
Jarrod broke the silence, his voice low and rough. “How far over time are we?”
“Two hours and seventeen minutes, sir. Instructor Hawke’s unscheduled extension.”
Jarrod said nothing more. His right arm remained locked across his torso inside the heavy medical brace. His splinted left hand lay rigid and useless where the brace and his own damaged body allowed it to rest. No fist formed. No knuckles whitened. Only the muscle in his jaw jumped once, the only outward sign of the fury coiling beneath his stillness.
The SUV skidded to a halt near the finish line. The sound drew every eye.
K.C. got out first and opened the rear door.
A man stepped out.
He was tall, his frame rigid around the visible bulk of the medical brace beneath his modified field jacket, his silhouette cut black against the harsh headlights. Even from a distance, the rank of a full colonel on his shoulders was unmistakable. The air, which had been filled with the panting of exhausted trainees, suddenly froze.
Jarrod Romero.
Every trainee who had already finished instinctively straightened their posture, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the presence of such high rank.
Sloane looked up from her stopwatch. Her icy composure finally cracked. A complex, unreadable emotion flickered in her eyes before being suppressed. She smoothed her uniform, her movements suddenly stiff, and walked to meet him.
“Colonel Romero,” she said. Her voice was pure military formality, but her eyes told a different story.
Jarrod’s gaze passed over her as if she were made of glass. It swept across the assembled trainees, a radar sweep that was cold, efficient, and searching.
He didn’t see who he was looking for. A small, almost imperceptible frown line appeared between his eyebrows.
Caroline saw Sloane’s posture stiffen, a flicker of tension crossing her face.