Chapter 3 - The Men on the Curb
Marcus stood up so quickly that his chair screeched against the laminate flooring. Lily froze, the plastic block slipping from her fingers and bouncing with a dull hollow sound.
""Marcus?"" Sarah’s voice spiked with alarm as she watched her husband’s posture change from exhausted father to guarded soldier in a fraction of a second. ""Who is that?""
""Stay inside,"" he muttered, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. ""Keep Lily in the kitchen.""
""Marcus, tell me what is going on!""
He didn't answer. He stepped through the hallway toward the front door, his hand instinctively dropping to his right hip, feeling the empty holster where his service sidearm normally rested. The muscle memory was an agonizing ghost. He reached the entryway, cracked the blinds open by half an inch, and observed the vehicle.
The sedan was a late-model utility vehicle, clean, devoid of state plates, displaying only government transport registration tags. The engine purred smoothly. Through the windshield, Marcus could discern two figures in dark button-down shirts and ballistic sunglasses. They weren't military police; they lacked the brass brassards and standard duty belts. These were contractors, or worse, operatives from the Directorate of Special Programs.
Marcus took a slow, deep breath, regulating his oxygen intake just as he had been trained during long ambushes in the rocky scrub of eastern ridges. He unlocked the front door and stepped out onto the porch, leaving the door cracked behind him so he could hear anything moving inside.
The morning air hit his face, sticky and thick with humidity. He descended the three wooden steps and walked down the driveway, stopping just at the edge of his property line. The front passenger window of the sedan rolled down with a soft electric hum.
The man in the passenger seat was in his mid-forties, short silvering hair, a sharp nose, and an unreadable expression. He looked at Marcus with cold, professional familiarity.
""Sergeant First Class Marcus Cole,"" the man said, not as a question, but as a confirmation of inventory.
""You're trespassing on private residential quarters,"" Marcus replied, keeping his feet shoulder-width apart, hands loose at his sides. ""Identify yourselves.""
The man held up a laminated clearance credential with a gold seal Marcus recognized instantly. It belonged to the Defense Intelligence Liaison Group.
""You arrived twelve hours ahead of the scheduled debriefing timeline, Marcus,"" the man said quietly. ""You didn't check into the transition station at Fort Meade. You walked off the tarmac.""
""I have terminal leave accrued,"" Marcus countered. ""My tour was completed.""
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The man smiled thinly, a humorless twitch of the mouth. ""Your tour doesn't end until the manifests are cleared, Sergeant. You know what was in the second crate. And you know why Miller isn't home.""
Before Marcus could reply, the driver glanced into his rearview mirror, tapped his partner’s arm, and pointed down the street. A second car had just turned the corner, accelerating rapidly toward their position.
