Man in the Shadows

 Chapter 1

Present Day - Briefing Room – USS Dwight D. Eisenhower
 0400 Hours | Combat Information Center | Red Sea AO, Near Hudaydah

The air was chilled by overworked AC ducts and the scent of machine oil, old coffee, and stress. A low hum filled the space—the thrum of servers, encrypted comms, and tension. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, casting the steel walls in a sterile glow. The doors were guarded, triple-secured. No electronics allowed inside—not even watches. This was deep-classified.

Chief Petty Officer Lucas Kincaid sat at the edge of a long steel table, arms crossed, boots planted like anchors on the deck. Salt-and-pepper stubble darkened his jaw. Eyes sharp, expression carved from granite. He looked like the kind of man who chewed through pressure instead of feeling it.

Commander Ellie Voss stepped to the head of the table. Her voice cut through the low murmur like a scalpel.

“Secure. Eyes only.”

The room quieted. SEALs, EODs, and intel officers leaned forward. Voss tapped a console. The main screen lit up with a satellite image—Hudaydah port, zoomed tight on a rust-red cargo vessel riding low in the water. Iranian markings barely concealed under a layer of grime and Arabic graffiti.

“The Sakeenah,” she said. “Registered as a humanitarian aid vessel. Intelligence confirms otherwise.”

She clicked again—schematics filled the screen. Below decks, rows of tightly packed crates, each outlined in infrared scans. Kincaid narrowed his eyes.

“Those aren’t rice bags,” he muttered.

“Correct,” Voss said. “We’ve ID’d Iranian-manufactured Quds-1 cruise missiles, Samad drones, shaped charges, and crates of 120mm mortar rounds. Estimated payload: enough to support a six-month insurgency—or sink a guided missile frigate.”

Someone at the table let out a low whistle.

Voss continued. “You’re looking at a floating weapons depot. We believe it’s intended for immediate transfer to Houthi coastal batteries by the end of the week.”

She nodded to the rear. A tall, dark-skinned intel officer stepped forward—Lieutenant Rajan Dey, NSA liaison.

“We’ve tapped chatter confirming night patrols at the dock, Iranian advisors on board, and anti-diver sonar buoys deployed in a 300-meter perimeter. They’re nervous. They know someone’s watching.”

He paused, locking eyes with Kincaid. “They don’t know it’s us.”

Voss leaned in. “Chief, your team inserts via USS Colorado, 80 clicks south. Sub will deploy you in two SDVs at 0200 tomorrow. You’ll surface here—” she zoomed in on a harbor grid “—approximately 400 meters east of the pier. Swim in under cover of darkness.”

“Currents?” Kincaid asked, voice low, sandpaper rough.

“East-to-west, 1.2 knots. Favorable,” Rajan answered.

“You’ll carry two demo loads,” Voss said, pointing. “Primary charge amidships. Secondary along the keel, aft section. EOD recommends synchronized detonation—split the hull, maximize rapid sink.”

Kincaid nodded slowly, already building the blueprint in his head. “C4? Or something hotter?”

“Cocktail mix,” chimed in Petty Officer Nate Morales, EOD. “C4 base with Semtex overlay, shaped charges for vertical fracture lines. Burn-through sleeves for hull adhesion. Fused on a three-minute delay after remote arming.”

Kincaid smirked faintly. “You’ve been busy.”

Morales shrugged. “Like cooking a ship-splitting soufflé.”

Someone chuckled, but it died quickly.

Voss brought them back. “Extraction via RHIB at rally point Delta, twenty-five nautical miles offshore. If compromised, alternate is secondary rendezvous for SDV pickup. You’ll have overwatch from USS Gravely. F-18s on alert status if the harbor wakes up.”

She tapped the final slide. Red circles bloomed on-screen. “These are your threats—dock security, patrol skiffs, and SAM platforms within a 2-click radius. Expect MANPADS, maybe shoulder-fired thermals. No-fly zone until detonation.”

Kincaid straightened. “Rules of engagement?”

“Silent in. Fire only if fired upon. Lethal authorized post-detonation. If you’re caught—”

“We’re not,” he said. Matter-of-fact. Flat.

The room held a second of silence.

“Good,” Voss said, jaw tight. “Then make the Sakeenah disappear.”

Kincaid stood, motioned to Morales and Petty Officer Dane Rourke, his SDV pilot. “We’ve got work.”

As the men filed out, Voss called after them.

“And Chief—”

He paused at the hatch.  “Don’t get caught swimming with sharks.”  Kincaid’s smirk was slow, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.  “Sharks should be more worried about us.”

The door sealed behind them. Countdown started.

 

 

Subsurface Ops Planning Room – USS Dwight D. Eisenhower
 0445 Hours | Deck 7, Forward Compartment | Behind Two Secure Bulkheads

The room was no bigger than a jail cell—tight, dim, windowless. A tactical map was pinned to a corkboard stained with old coffee splashes and the scuffs of countless briefings. The overhead bulb buzzed faintly, and the hum of the Eisenhower's internal systems was constant, like the heartbeat of a beast too big to comprehend.

Kincaid leaned over the laminated chart, one hand planted beside a grease-pencil sketch of Hudaydah’s harbor. The other hand worked a red China marker across acetate—arcs, depth readings, soft entries.

Petty Officer Nate Morales slouched in a chair, boots on the bench, chewing a cinnamon toothpick like it owed him money. His forearms were tattooed with EOD ink and old scars. He held a weathered black notebook—his “cookbook”—and flipped through hand-scrawled diagrams of shaped charges, blast radius math, and scribbled reminders like Don’t use duct tape. Again.

Petty Officer Dane Rourke sat cross-legged on a flipped-over crate, tapping a gloved finger against a laminated depth contour. Rourke was lean, sharp-featured, and cocky in a way only a guy who’s driven a SEAL Delivery Vehicle blind through mined waters could be. His wetsuit was rolled halfway down, sweat glistening on his ribs despite the chill.

“No air pockets near the pier,” Rourke muttered, eyes scanning sonar overlays. “Tide’s pulling east—fast. You blink, you’re drifted ten meters off. Means I drop you here—” he jabbed at the chart “—a hundred out. Any closer and we risk sonar contact.”

Kincaid grunted. “We’ll fin it in.”

Morales leaned forward, popping his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Currents that strong, we’re gonna be fighting water the whole damn way. I say we sneak closer. Sixty meters. I’ll eat the extra creep time for the sake of not burning my quads halfway to the target.”

“Sixty’s pushing it,” Rourke said. “I thread that SDV any closer and we’re pissing in the Houthis’ backyard. Sonar net’s tight. Any louder than a fart in church and we’re soup.”

Kincaid looked up from the chart. “So don’t fart.”

Morales snorted. “Easy for you to say. You ain’t carrying twenty pounds of Semtex in your nut-hugger.”

Rourke grinned, but his eyes stayed on the map. “I’ll hold at seventy. Drop-point Alpha. You swim the last thirty. It’s darker than a politician’s soul down there—no moon, cloudy cover. Stay low. Kick silent.”

Kincaid nodded. “Done.”

Morales flipped his notebook closed with a snap. “Demo layout?”

Kincaid turned the page on the acetate. “We go classic keel split. Primary charge dead center, starboard side, beneath the first cargo hold. You put the secondary aft—near the screws, lower brace. Set timers for near-simultaneous pop.”

Morales nodded, tapping his boot heel against the floor. “Charges go on like skin grafts. Magnetic clamps, shaped frame, double-fused. Timer with manual trigger override. If we get spotted, I can light it with the clicker.”

“Safe margin?”

“Ten minutes swim clear. Unless you want a free ride in a pressure wave.”

Kincaid gave a low grunt that passed for a laugh.

Morales added, “I’ve tuned the delay fuse for wet deployment. Even wrapped the triggers in triple-sealed condoms. Learned that trick in Somalia. Or was it Tijuana?”

“Either way, sounds like you were working with amateurs,” Rourke muttered.

Morales flashed a grin. “Only amateurs who paid cash.”

Kincaid didn’t smile, but his voice eased. “You two done flirting?”

“Not yet,” Morales said. “I’m still trying to get Rourke to buy me dinner after.”

Rourke stood, stretching. “Let’s finish the plan first. In and out timeline?”

Kincaid’s tone turned steely. “Insertion at oh-two-hundred. SDV ride—twenty minutes. Swim—fifteen. Attach charges, confirm structure, swim out—twenty tops. We detonate no later than oh-three-ten. Exfil on RHIB at Rally Delta. If things go sideways, we switch to Omega point and pray Gravely's watching her scopes.”

The three men fell quiet. A moment passed—just breath, the hiss of recycled air, and the weight of what was coming.

Finally, Morales stood and stretched his back with a groan. “Ain’t the dive that bothers me. It’s crawling up to that rustbucket in the dark like a damn barnacle.”

Kincaid slid his marker back into his shirt pocket. “You’ll do fine. Just don’t stick your head up like last time.”

“That was one time,” Morales snapped. “And the guy missed.”

“He wasn’t aiming at you,” Rourke said dryly. “He was aiming at the explosives on your back.”

Kincaid turned toward the door, grabbing his fins and rebreather pack. “Let’s go get some rack. We swim at two hundred. We don’t talk again unless it’s in the water.”

Morales slung his gear over one shoulder. “Hey Chief—if we don’t come back, can you make sure my ex-wife doesn’t get my truck?”

Kincaid deadpanned, “Not if she gets to the lawyer first.”

They filed out, silent now, each man retreating into his own mind. The mission was locked in. No more talk. Just the hum of steel beneath their boots, and the weight of what they were about to do.

 

 

 

 

Final Briefing – Combat Information Center, USS Dwight D. Eisenhower
 2000 Hours | Red Sea AO | 4 Hours to Infil

The lights were lower now. Intentional. Just enough glow from the recessed LEDs to cast hard shadows over the men seated around the U-shaped table. The room smelled like sweat, cordite, and brewing coffee that no one was drinking. Tension hung like humidity.

The screen at the front displayed a looping satellite image of the Hudaydah harbor. Night-vision overlays, thermal scans, depth charts, and tide flow diagrams flickered silently, burning themselves into muscle memory. This wasn’t rehearsal anymore.

Commander Ellie Voss stood again—same stance, same voice, but now her tone had the bite of finality.

“This is your zero-hour brief. All units and support assets are on alert. We go live at oh-two-hundred.”

She nodded to the back. A younger officer stepped forward—LTJG Ira Mendoza, comms and coordination.

“You’ll insert from the USS Colorado, 74 nautical miles southeast of Hudaydah. SEALs deploy via SDV, two craft, four operators per vehicle.” He gestured toward Kincaid and his team seated front row. “Chief Kincaid’s team will carry full demo load. SDV-2 will provide overwatch and exfil escort.”

Mendoza tapped a tablet. “You’ll travel submerged at 4 knots. Estimated time to release point: nineteen minutes. Sea conditions are favorable—minimal chop, low current interference. Water temps are at 81 degrees Fahrenheit. You’ll swim the final ninety meters to the hull.”

“Communication blackout is absolute,” Voss cut in. “No burst transmissions. No pings. No beacon locators. This is radio silent until exfil.”

Morales leaned forward. “So how do we yell for help when the fan hits full suck?”

“You don’t,” she said flatly. “But if you must, emergency flash-comm devices are embedded in your wrist navs. Triple press the button on the left side. It’ll burst-send your last GPS stamp to the Gravely, encrypted. Use it once. If you’re not dead, they’ll come get you.”

Kincaid didn’t blink. “Standard timing window?”

“Thirty-five minutes from SDV release to full egress. Detonation scheduled at oh-three-ten. That gives you seventeen minutes on the hull.”

Rourke let out a soft exhale through his nose. “Tight.”

“Not tight. Surgical,” Voss corrected.

A few low chuckles rumbled from the back.

Morales raised his hand, like a bored high schooler. “Do we get a medal if we blow the thing in under fifteen?”

“Only if you live to pin it on,” Mendoza muttered.

Kincaid’s voice was low. “Primary and secondary demo points have been confirmed. Midships for structure failure, aft keel for propulsion kill. Double-tethered magnetic charges, five-minute stagger fuse with manual override. Morales will place both. I’ll supervise placements and verify blast cone alignment.”

“Rourke?” Voss asked.

The SDV pilot straightened. “SDV holds station at eighty meters. Tethered drift anchor engaged. I’ll keep sonar active but passive-mode only. If anything bigger than a seagull comes sniffing, I’ll ping three times.”

“Extraction?”

“Primary exfil is Rally Delta—twenty-five nautical miles southwest. RHIB pickup window is oh-three-forty-five to oh-four-hundred. If compromised, fallback is Omega Point—thirty-five nautical miles. Full blackout. Strobe off. No comms until visual.”

“Who’s driving the RHIB?” Morales asked.

“Chief Kowalski. Marine Raider detachment. He’ll be on time. He always is.”

“He sober this time?”

A snicker passed around the room.

“Doesn’t matter,” Kincaid said. “He can drive that RHIB drunk and backwards.”

Voss cut in again. “You’ll wear standard dive rigs—closed-circuit rebreathers, twin-tank systems, no surface markers. Nav boards synced to encrypted GPS. No flares, no chem lights. You are shadows.”

The silence that followed wasn’t dramatic—it was loaded. Everyone knew what it meant.

“If you’re caught,” Mendoza said quietly, “you weren’t there.”

Kincaid stood slowly. “We done?”

Voss nodded. “We’re done. Gear up. Transit in sixty.”

Kincaid turned, nodding to Morales and Rourke. They filed out behind him, boots echoing off the deck like the slow beat of war drums.

They didn’t speak.

There was nothing left to say.

Torpedo Room – USS Colorado (SSN 788)
 0130 Hours | 30 Meters Below Surface | 74 Nautical Miles Southeast of Hudaydah

The torpedo room of the Colorado was a cramped, steel womb of sweat, salt, and purpose. It reeked of hydraulic oil, stale air, and the metallic tang of pressure-locked machinery. The hum of the sub was deeper here, like a war drum buried in the marrow of the ship.

Chief Kincaid crouched beside the SDV—Seal Delivery Vehicle #2—a matte-black, low-silhouette coffin with propellers, trimmed for stealth and stripped for speed. Its hull still glistened from the seawater rinse after its systems check. He ran his fingers along the seal line, inspecting the latches one last time.

“Hull integrity confirmed,” said Rourke, his voice muffled behind a rebreather mask, slung loose around his neck. “Battery core’s topped. Nav system’s live and synced to mission track. She’s ready to swim.”

Kincaid gave a slight nod, then turned to check his own rig—Mk25 rebreather, twin 3L oxygen tanks, Viper front-mounted HUD, mission-timer hardwired to his left forearm.

Morales sat on a bench tightening the straps on his thigh-mounted charge pouch. His wetsuit creaked with each stretch, neoprene worn at the knees and elbows. He spat a wad of gum into a rag and grinned.

“Someone tell the Houthi assholes to leave the lights on. I’m bringing the fireworks.”

“You’re not funny,” Rourke muttered.

“I’m hilarious. I just haven’t been properly appreciated.”

Kincaid didn’t look up. “Appreciate faster. We’re ten mikes to load.”

A crew chief in a red vest moved down the row, clipboard in hand. “All systems green. Dry deck shelter pressurizing now. Outer flood vents are clear. SDV-1 and SDV-2 will launch staggered, sixty seconds apart.”

“Copy that,” Kincaid replied, eyes still locked on Morales. “Double-check your clamps. I want both demo charges riding flush or I’ll shove ‘em where your lungs used to be.”

Morales held up his palms. “Relax, Chief. I did arts and crafts in fourth grade. I can stick plastic to metal.”

“You also blew a dummy hull off a crane in Coronado,” Rourke muttered.

“Exactly. High marks for enthusiasm.”

Kincaid slid his rebreather mouthpiece into place, did a slow inhale. No leak. Clean seal. The tank hissed as he adjusted the output valve, then snapped the HUD down over one eye. Depth readout—check. O2 mix—check. Mission timer—counting down.

Morales was next, strapping the charge frame to his back, locking it down with a flat click. His wrist HUD blinked green.

“Chief,” said a sailor at the hatch. “Deck shelter’s ready. Outer door opens in four.”

Kincaid stood, sealing his gloves over the cuffs of his suit. “Alright. Rourke, you’re my eyes. Morales, stay tight off my six. No chatter unless it’s critical.”

He looked at them both, voice even. “Remember: slow is silent, silent is lethal. No cowboy shit. We’re not here to make history. We’re here to make that ship sink and disappear.”

Rourke stepped toward the SDV and swung a leg over like he was mounting a cold-blooded stallion. “Aye, Chief. Let’s go murder a cargo ship.”

Morales slapped his hand against the bulkhead twice for luck, then slipped into the passenger bay of the SDV. Kincaid followed, sliding into position, locking his legs into the foot wells, hands resting on the rigging.

The hatch shut behind them with a dull clunk.

Red lights bathed the bay in war color.

Pressurization hissed.

The SDV cradle tilted downward.

They were no longer part of the Colorado. They were ghosts now—silent, submerged, and moving.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

En Route to Hudaydah – SDV-2, Underwater Transit
 0208 Hours | 38 Meters Depth | 3.1 Nautical Miles to Target

The electric hum of the SDV was barely audible over the rush of seawater slipping past its hull. Inside, the space was coffin-tight—four men shoulder to shoulder in darkness, each breath carefully metered through closed-circuit rebreathers, no bubbles to betray them. Every flicker of movement was green-tinted through the night-optic displays mounted to their wrists and helmets.

Kincaid sat forward in the nav seat, gloved fingers steady on the trim tabs. The SDV bucked gently as it cut beneath the current, nose-down five degrees. His wrist HUD blinked—depth: 38.2m, speed: 3.7 knots, bearing: 341 degrees. A steady crawl across the seafloor, just above a rolling bed of silt and rock.

Behind him, Morales adjusted his loadout, shifting the charge pack against his spine. His voice crackled in Kincaid’s ear—low, a whisper barely above a thought.

“Feels like that op off Basra. Except colder. And less camel shit.”

Kincaid answered without turning. “That op didn’t have Iranian drones watching the docks.”

Morales clicked his tongue. “Yeah, but the coffee was better. Navy ships brew like they’re trying to kill us slow.”

Up front, Rourke spoke from the pilot seat, his voice flat. “Quiet. Passive sonar's picking up low-band emissions. Dock’s probably awake. Fishing boats at best. Radar sweep at two o'clock.”

Kincaid leaned in, scanned the tiny sonar repeater—saw faint ripples in the green sweep. Nothing sharp, nothing hunting yet.

“Maintain depth. No correction. They’re scanning wide. We’re under the bloom,” Kincaid said.

“Aye,” Rourke replied, nudging the trim with surgical flicks of the joystick.

Water pressure creaked faintly against the hull as they descended two meters more. Outside, a school of silvery baitfish flashed past, startled by the SDV’s silent approach.

Kincaid reached over, tapped Morales once on the forearm. A silent command.

Morales checked his timer. 02:12. Four minutes to swim point.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, letting the rebreather cycle the CO₂. Adrenaline tapped at his fingertips. He flexed them once, twice, and clenched the release on his magnetic clamps to confirm readiness.

“Charges are stable,” he whispered. “We’re green.”

Rourke cut throttle.

The SDV slowed to a crawl, the hum dipping into a barely-there vibration beneath their boots.

“We’re here,” he said. “Swim point. Depth thirty-five meters. Hull’s two hundred meters due north-northeast. Surface structures silhouetted against the dock floodlights.”

Kincaid cracked his neck once. “Masks down. HUDs tight. Let’s swim.”

He keyed the release harness, and the canopy hissed as pressure equalized. Cold black water rushed in, swallowing them whole.  They slipped into the void, silent as death.

Underwater Approach – Hudaydah Harbor
 0215 Hours | 35 Meters Depth | 200 Meters to Target

The world narrowed to shadows and pressure.

Chief Kincaid glided forward, arms locked against his sides, fins slicing in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each kick was a whisper, a calculated push through the black. Around him, the sea was vast, heavy, alive with currents that tugged like unseen fingers.

To his left, Morales swam low, hugging the silty bottom. The demo rig on his back looked like a second spine, cables tucked, clamps strapped tight. His movements were steady, precise—no wasted motion. Just behind, Rourke drifted in his wake, eyes sweeping upward and outward, rifle slung muzzle-down, finger near the safety, watching for anything unnatural in the dark.

Communication was all in the hands now—tight, practiced signals lit by faint blue chem-lights clipped to their gloves.

Fist, open palm.
 Kincaid: Hold position.

Two fingers pointed ahead.
 Rourke: Structure at bearing zero-four-five, topside floodlight spill.

They drifted upward, just enough to catch silhouette: the Houthi vessel loomed ahead, its hull a wall of rust and steel, blotting out the faint shimmer of dock lights filtering through the surface above.

Thumb tap to chest, circle in the air.
 Kincaid: Form circle. Fan out, maintain visual.

The team split, no more than six meters apart. Breathing was shallow, every movement measured. From this distance, the ship was a giant, silent thing—still, but waiting.

No prop noise. No movement topside. Just the hum of a generator and the slow sway of an anchored giant.

Kincaid’s wrist HUD ticked over: 02:18.

They were in the killbox now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Action on Objective – Beneath the Houthi Freighter
 0219 Hours | 6 Meters Below Hull | Hudaydah Harbor

The ship loomed above them like a dead leviathan, barnacled and black, its hull scarred with age and war. From beneath, the vessel’s keel stretched like a steel spine—thick, riveted, and vulnerable.

Kincaid leveled out six meters below midships, reached forward, and placed a gloved palm against the cold steel. The vibration was faint—a generator hum, nothing more. No footfalls. No engine movement. They still had time.

He signaled—closed fist, two pumps.
 Begin placement.

Morales peeled left, kicking slow toward the aft quarter. He carried the primary charge—a shaped C4 composite package, molded to detonate laterally and collapse the ship’s center mass. Strapped across his chest, four magnetic clamps clinked softly as he disengaged them.

He settled against the hull at frame 45—right beneath the forward cargo hold. He wiped the area with a neoprene pad, clearing algae and barnacle crust to bare metal. With practiced precision, he pressed the first magnet down—CLACK. Second, third, fourth. A perfect square, tight corners. He clipped the charge’s frame into the clamps, adjusting the tilt so the copper liner of the shape charge faced true.

He plugged in the arming wire, sealed the fuse bay with an underwater epoxy patch, and flicked on the indicator light—a tiny red glow inside the housing.

He turned back to Kincaid. Thumb up. Then four fingers, then two.
 Midships charge—Frame 45—set.

Meanwhile, Kincaid drifted aft, keeping one eye on the perimeter. His charge was the secondary—a keel-breaker, designed to punch through the lower belly near the engine compartment and break the back of the vessel. He moved low, past the first prop guard, careful to avoid any netting or mooring chains.

At frame 98, just above the prop shaft casing, he placed his hands against the hull and slowly unlatched his pack. The Mk-92 linear charge unrolled like a tape measure—three meters of copper-sheathed explosive, narrow but lethal. He adhered the sticky-backed liner to the keel, pressing firmly every six inches, then locked it down with magnetic tabs at each end.

He clipped the dual-fuse leads to the line charge’s terminal port, cross-checked voltage, and toggled the arming switch. No sparks, no noise—just a green light blinking beneath the transparent gel casing.

He turned to Rourke. Palm open, three taps, two fingers up.
 Secondary charge—Frame 98—armed.

Rourke, last in formation, had no demo—his job was overwatch. He hovered in a loose orbit, scanning above with his HUD set to thermal contrast. His rifle was cradled but pointed down. No shadows moved across the waterline. No movement from the dock. Clear—for now.

As each man finished, they converged—reconvening beneath the belly of the ship, just behind the forward sonar blister.

Kincaid motioned—circle, then arrow.
 Rally. Egress.

Morales gave a slow nod, checked his clamps, clipped his timer remote to his belt, and flipped off the HUD light. The red indicators on both charges blinked rhythmically—silent countdown already engaged.

Kincaid led the way, sweeping toward the edge of the hull’s shadow. No words. No margin for error.

They swam like ghosts—disappearing into the black toward the waiting SDV.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Exfiltration – Return Transit via SDV
 0236 Hours | 38 Meters Depth | Departing Hudaydah AO

They moved fast, but not sloppy.

Back in their seats, soaked and silent, Kincaid sealed the SDV’s hatch behind them with a slow, deliberate clunk. The internal lights remained blood red—low-lumen, barely enough to read the instruments. The rebreather hissed softly as he settled into the nav seat, gloved fingers dancing across the touchpad.

Rourke engaged propulsion, nudging the joystick forward. The SDV hummed to life, sliding backward from beneath the ship’s shadow like a predator slipping away from a kill.

No one spoke.

Kincaid’s wrist HUD pulsed green—timer: 00:31:07 and counting.

Outside the canopy, the sea stretched infinite and dark. The vessel’s lights faded behind them, blurred through layers of salt and silt. No alarms. No searchlights. The Houthis were still asleep in their steel tomb.

Morales leaned his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded behind his HUD. His shoulders rose and fell in slow, rhythmic breaths. On his thigh, the transmitter blinked once, confirming the detonation link was still alive. The charges would blow clean and sudden, split the ship like wet timber.

Water curled past the SDV’s hull, muffling all sound but the gentle purr of the electric motor and the quiet tick-tick-tick of the mission timer.

Kincaid stared ahead, eyes unblinking.

No one relaxed.

Not yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recovery – Reboarding USS Colorado (SSN 788)
 0254 Hours | 80 Meters Depth | 74 Nautical Miles Southeast of Hudaydah

The SDV coasted in slow beneath the massive hull of the USS Colorado, its outline emerging from the dark like a submerged skyscraper—silent, looming, alive.

Above, the entrance to the Dry Deck Shelter (DDS) gaped open—an artificial cave mated to the sub’s aft section, pressurized and prepped for recovery. Inside, soft amber guide lights pulsed in rhythmic succession, like a landing strip in the abyss.

Rourke throttled down to a whisper, making minute corrections with the stick. “Approaching cradle,” he said into the tight-band comms. “Three meters out. Hold steady.”

Kincaid leaned slightly forward in his harness, peering through the SDV’s canopy. “Port trim, half degree.”

Rourke tapped the side thruster.

Whir. Tap. Adjust. Drift.

The SDV aligned with the metal cradle—an X-shaped rig bolted to the DDS deck. Hydraulic arms were already extended, waiting to capture the SDV’s skids.

Morales craned his neck. “Reminds me of threading a needle during an earthquake.”

“Shut up,” Rourke murmured, guiding it in slow.

CLANK.

The cradle arms locked into place with a satisfying mechanical snap. The SDV clicked into its mooring, held tight as the DDS hatch began to close behind them.

A moment later, the flood system reversed. Pumps groaned. Water churned. Valves hissed.

The compartment began to de-flood—slowly at first, then with a steady roar as the water was purged into the black outside. Bubbles frothed around them, dancing up toward the ceiling like frantic ghosts. The SDV vibrated gently as the pressure equalized with the sub’s internal atmosphere.

Red lights flipped to white.

The DDS now hissed dry. A crewman appeared through the inner access hatch in a yellow dry suit, waving them forward.

Kincaid unlatched his canopy, popping the seal. A rush of warm, recycled sub air filled the chamber, laced with oil and ozone.

“Clear!” Kincaid called out, pulling himself free from the SDV.

He landed with a thud on the DDS deck, boots heavy, suit dripping. Morales followed, grunting as he slid out, gear clinking with every move.

Rourke powered down the SDV, flipped switches in order, then climbed out last, handing off a storage drive with the nav data to the waiting tech.

Kincaid pulled his rebreather free, slinging it over his shoulder. “Charges are green. Five minutes to go.”

The crewman nodded. “We’ll get you topside. Skipper’s waiting.”

Kincaid didn’t reply. He simply moved to the interior hatch, boots squeaking on wet steel, a trail of seawater left behind.

The kill was in motion.

And now, they waited to hear the boom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Control Room – USS Colorado (SSN 788)
 0303 Hours | Periscope Depth | 3 Nautical Miles Off Hudaydah

The Colorado’s control room was dim and red-lit, quiet except for the muted hum of the reactor and the occasional beep of sonar pings fading into the abyss. Steel groaned softly under pressure, as if the boat itself held its breath.

Commander Reece Langford stood over the combat console, arms crossed behind his back, expression carved from basalt. He was the kind of officer who said more with a look than most men said in a page. His XO hovered nearby, pacing slow, glancing at the tactical display every five seconds like it might change its mind.

Kincaid entered through the aft hatch, water still dripping from his dive rig, Morales and Rourke just behind him. They peeled out of their suits fast, not sloppy—trained muscle memory. No one said a word. Not yet.

Langford didn’t turn. “We armed?”

“Charges set and counting,” Kincaid said, his voice low, even. “Frame 45 midships. Frame 98 aft keel. She’ll fold like wet cardboard.”

Langford nodded once, his gaze locked on the forward display. “Bring us to periscope depth. Up scope.”

“Aye, sir,” the diving officer said. “Rising. Twenty meters... nineteen... holding.”

The boat leveled with a subtle shift, ballast tanks adjusting. Hydraulics hissed as the periscope mast extended skyward through the brine, breaking the surface in silence.

Langford stepped up, one eye pressed to the eyepiece.

The ship was there—Sakeenah—still docked, lights dim, the faint glow of deck fixtures painting the waterline gold. She looked peaceful. Innocent. Like a freight ship waiting to offload crates.

“Got visual,” Langford murmured. “No movement. Just another ghost in a rusted harbor.”

“Not for long,” Kincaid said, stepping beside him. He didn't ask to look. He just watched Langford’s body, waiting for the tell.

0309:42 — Morales’ wristwatch beeped softly.

One minute to go.

The control room went still. No chatter. No breathing. Just the whisper of recycled air and the low growl of American steel.

Langford exhaled. “Ever think about what’s in those crates?”

Kincaid’s jaw tightened. “I’ve seen what they do to school buses in Aden. Don’t need to think.”

0309:58

“Three... two... one...” Morales muttered.

0310:00

The Sakeenah jumped.

From the periscope’s view, the hull bulged outward midships—then split in a burst of steel and sea. A delayed thundercrack rolled back across the water. Flames coughed through the deck plates. Smoke billowed upward as the ship began to list, groaning like a dying animal.

“Got her,” Langford said, almost reverently.

The bow pitched hard, screws rising out of the water. Then came the secondary—at the keel.

CRACK. The aft section folded in on itself. Bulkheads collapsed. The lights flickered—then died. The freighter sank like an anvil, swallowed by the Red Sea in less than forty seconds.

No alarms. No spotlights. No gunfire.

Just absence.

Kincaid blinked once. “Clean. Faster than I thought.”

Morales stepped up behind him. “That was beautiful.”

Langford lowered the scope. “Let’s disappear.”

“Dive the boat,” the XO ordered. “Take us to ninety meters. Set course two-seven-zero. Full quiet run.”

“Aye, sir. Diving.”

The sub tilted forward, slow and smooth, descending into the depths as the Red Sea swallowed the last bubbles of the wreck.

No cheers. No high-fives. Just a quiet, professional gravity as the Colorado slipped into black, invisible once more.

They left nothing behind but steel and silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rendezvous – USS Colorado Rejoins Carrier Group
 Dawn | Arabian Sea, 30 Nautical Miles from Hudaydah

The USS Colorado rose from the depths in the pre-dawn gray, breaking the surface with barely a ripple. Sea spray misted the hull as she hovered at periscope depth, then broached fully—her dorsal hatches opening like the breath of a machine exhaling after the hunt.

Overhead, the USS Gravely maintained a wide arc at a safe distance, while the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower loomed further west, silhouetted by the first blush of morning. Deck lights flickered, blinking confirmation across encrypted channels.

A Navy RHIB cut across the waves, foam trailing in a tight wake. Within minutes, the SDV crew—Chief Kincaid, Morales, Rourke, and two others—were aboard, stripped of dive gear but still wearing the taut focus of men not fully out of the fight. The ride was brief, silent, but there was an edge easing off their shoulders now, inch by inch.

By the time they stepped onto the carrier’s deck, the sun had breached the horizon in a smear of blood-orange and steel. No fanfare. Just a few nods from the flight crew, the kind given between professionals who know something went right.

Scene: Briefing Room – USS Dwight D. Eisenhower
 0745 Hours | Two Hours After Return

Same room. Different air.

The steel table still sat under the cold lights, but now mugs steamed gently beside open folders. A half-empty carafe of black coffee sat front and center. Someone had smuggled in a box of powdered donuts, already down to two. The SEALs lounged—clean, changed into fresh utilities, damp hair combed but unbothered. Faces tired, eyes sharp.

Morales had a towel draped around his neck, still drying his ears. “I tell you right now,” he said between bites, “if this Navy gig goes sideways, I’m opening a demolition school for TikTok influencers.”

Soft laughter rippled through the room.

Commander Ellie Voss entered, a data tablet in hand. She scanned the group, noting the relaxed posture, the thin layer of fatigue masked by caffeine and adrenaline taper.

“Gentlemen,” she said, tapping the screen, “the Sakeenah is no longer a navigable concern. Sat recon confirms full submersion. No deck salvage visible. Dock crew response was chaotic—no counterattack, no survivors pulled. Target obliterated.”

Kincaid sipped his coffee. “She split?”

“Right down the spine,” Voss said. “Secondary went exactly as designed—engines sheared clean. Intel’s estimating three weeks before anyone even confirms it wasn’t an accident.”

“Beautiful,” Rourke muttered. “They’ll blame rust and bad welding.”

Morales leaned forward. “Any word from upstairs?”

“SecDef’s got the footage,” she replied. “Carrier drone caught thermal of the detonation from fifteen clicks. They’re calling it ‘precision-deniable.’”

“Which means?” Kincaid asked.

“It means you were never there. And breakfast is still on time.”

Another low chuckle rolled through the room.

She tapped the next screen. “Debrief item one: insertion. Any issues?”

Rourke cleared his throat. “Minimal current drift. SDV behaved. Drop point was within five meters of plan.”

Kincaid nodded. “Swim was clean. No visual detection. Morales?”

“Charges planted on Frame 45 and 98. Midship hull popped like a melon. Keel snapped a second later. Timers worked. No deviation.”

“Good,” Voss said, tapping notes. “No sonar contact during exit?”

“Negative,” Kincaid confirmed. “Perimeter stayed asleep.”

“Comm silence held?”

“Not a peep.”

Voss paused, looked at them all. “That’s textbook. Cleanest op I’ve seen in five years.”

The room quieted, that silence of a team absorbing something rare: mission success with zero compromise.

Kincaid leaned back, drained his cup. “Then I’d say that’s one hell of a night.”

The tension had finally lifted. Mission Complete.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Present Day - Virginia Beach, VA

Fleet Forces Command – Operations Center
 Virginia Beach, VA | 1740 Hours

The hum of fluorescent lights and the low buzz of classified chatter filled the operations center like static in Melissa Kincaid’s nerves. The big screens along the wall flickered with satellite feeds and data streams, but her eyes were fixed on the folder in her hands—a daily briefing packet she was preparing for Commander Cade Shepard.

She kept her breathing slow, steady. Professional.

He was behind her. She felt it before she heard his voice.

“Yeoman Kincaid,” he said, tone smooth as bourbon but cold in the marrow. “Still the most efficient person in this building.”

She turned, clipboard in hand. “Just finishing the SITREP update, sir. Intelligence from Sixth Fleet is in—forwarded with annotations.”

He took the folder, fingers brushing hers—not an accident. Melissa stepped back. A little too quickly. She felt her cheeks flush, hated that he’d seen it.

Shepard barely looked at the contents. “Flawless. As always.” He closed the folder without reading further and looked at her—not her eyes, but her face. Her mouth. Then back to her eyes, smiling with just enough restraint to remain plausible. “You must make your husband proud.”

She stiffened. Don’t react. “He is proud of the Navy, sir. We both are.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Shepard said quietly, then chuckled as if it were a joke—just a joke—meant to be laughed off. Except there was no warmth behind it.

Melissa glanced at the open office door. The space beyond was empty, most personnel already cleared out for the evening. Shepard took a step forward. He wasn’t close—technically. But close enough that she could smell his cologne. Subtle. Expensive. Calculated.

“I’d like to discuss some adjustments to tomorrow’s deck brief,” he said, tone even, professional now. “We can go over them... here.”

He gestured to the small table in the corner of the office. No windows. One chair. Don’t go. Every instinct told her not to be alone with him.

“I can update the brief now and email it to you within the hour, sir.” She kept her voice neutral, her body angled toward the door. “Unless there’s a particular concern?”

“There’s always a concern,” Shepard said, and stepped beside her—not blocking her, not quite. But close enough to make it clear who had the space, and who didn't.

He leaned just slightly toward her. His voice dropped. “You’ve always had a way of anticipating my needs.”

She turned her head to look at him—and felt it. His hand, brushing past the small of her back as if reaching for something behind her. But there was nothing behind her.

She moved. A full step back. She didn’t raise her voice, but her words were clear, direct. “Sir, I’m not comfortable with that.”

There was a pause. A beat of silence in which nothing moved.

Then he tilted his head. Smiled, just enough to mock her. “With what, Yeoman? I was simply adjusting my footing. We work in tight quarters.”

“Still, I’d prefer you didn’t do that again.” Her tone sharpened. Steady. But inside, her pulse thudded like a drumbeat in her ears.

Shepard looked at her for a long moment, then let out a soft laugh. “Of course. Wouldn’t want you to feel unsafe. Not here, of all places.”

But the words were hollow. There was a weight behind them. A message: I know where the lines are—and how to stay just behind them.

He stepped past her toward the door, pausing just long enough to look back. “You’re very good at what you do, Melissa. I hope that never... changes.”

And then he was gone.

Melissa stood there a full five seconds before exhaling. Her hands trembled just slightly. She balled them into fists. She was Navy. She had handled worse.

But she also knew: Cade Shepard hadn’t just crossed a line.

He had marked her.  And this wasn’t over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fleet Forces Command – Secondary Briefing Room
 Virginia Beach, VA | 1335 Hours

The overhead lights buzzed faintly in the otherwise silent room. Melissa Kincaid sat alone at the long table, her laptop open, her fingers dancing across the keyboard as she compiled post-brief edits to the morning's intelligence packet. Most of the staff were down the hall in an ongoing strategy session, and she was glad for the quiet—until the door opened.

Commander Cade Shepard entered without knocking.

Melissa didn’t look up right away. She didn’t need to. She recognized the scent of his cologne. The low, unhurried cadence of his stride. The sound of the door closing behind him—softly. Deliberately.

“Yeoman,” he said, drawing the word out slightly, like it tasted good in his mouth.

She looked up, face neutral. “Sir.”

He didn’t sit. He stood behind her, just outside her periphery, pacing with idle purpose, arms behind his back.

“I read your amendments to the intercept summary. You’re very precise with your language.”

“Thank you, sir.” She minimized the document on her screen. Her posture was straight. Professional. But her throat was dry.

“You know,” he continued, stepping closer now, behind her shoulder, “precision is a rare thing. Especially in this building. Most people… approximate. Get close. You don’t.”

Melissa felt the air shift as he leaned slightly closer—his hand resting on the back of her chair. Not her. Just the chair. Close enough that the warmth of his body radiated against her shoulder.

Her hands froze over the keyboard. “Commander Shepard—respectfully, I need space to work.”

He didn’t move. “Of course. I’m just observing. I find watching talented people work... informative.”

She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze out of the corner of her eye. “I’d prefer to work without being watched, sir.”

His smile returned, slower this time. Measured. “I meant no offense. You’re just… fascinating.”

That word. It was wrong. It didn’t belong in this room.

She stood, putting the chair between them. “Sir, if there’s something specific you need from me, I’d be happy to get it to you through official channels.”

Something shifted behind his eyes—not anger, not yet—but amusement curdled with irritation.

“You know, Melissa,” he said, voice calm, even warm, “this tone you’ve adopted lately—it doesn’t suit you. You used to be more… accommodating.”

Her blood went cold.

“That was before I felt uncomfortable around you,” she said, the edge in her voice barely restrained.

A long silence followed. The fluorescent lights hummed. Down the corridor, distant voices echoed through steel and concrete.

Then, softly: “You’re reading too much into things.”

“I’m reading exactly what’s there,” she replied, steady. “And I’m asking you to stop.”

He tilted his head, calculating. Weighing the threat. Not of her—but of what she might do. Who she might tell. But he knew, just as she did, that people like him didn’t get exposed easily.

His tone grew gentler. False concern layered beneath polished restraint. “Melissa. You know how important discretion is around here. We all rely on each other’s judgment.”

“Then judge this,” she said. “Don’t ever put your hands near me again.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. But the tension in his jaw betrayed him—just for a heartbeat.

Then he smiled. “Of course. If that’s how you feel.”

He stepped toward the door, casual again, the predator slipping back into the skin of an officer.

“But I do hope this little… misunderstanding doesn’t affect your work. It would be a shame if people began to question your professionalism.”

He walked out without waiting for a response.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Melissa stared at it.

The line had been crossed.

This time, he wanted her to know it.

And she knew, with cold certainty, that she could no longer ignore it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scene: Le Pavé — French Coastal Cuisine
 Virginia Beach | 1915 Hours | Two Weeks Later

The clink of stemware and the low murmur of conversation filled the softly lit dining room like the gentle roll of tidewater. Le Pavé was all polished brass, aged oak, and quiet elegance—an off-the-radar gem tucked two blocks from the boardwalk, where you could hear the ocean if you stepped outside but not the noise of the world inside.

Lucas Kincaid sat across from his wife, blazer open, sleeves cuffed back just enough to reveal the black diver’s watch snug on his wrist. His hair was still regulation tight, but longer than usual. The kind of length that said: on leave. He’d shaved before they came, but missed a spot along the jaw. Melissa hadn’t mentioned it.

She wore a navy-blue dress, simple, clean lines, not flashy—but perfect. Her makeup was light, almost hesitant. Her hair curled slightly at the ends, falling to her shoulders, pinned back just enough to keep it out of her eyes. Her hands were wrapped around the stem of her wine glass, not sipping. Just holding.

Kincaid leaned in, voice low and easy. “You know, this duck confit’s the best thing I’ve had in months. But I’d trade it all for chow line coffee and powdered eggs with you across the table.”

She smiled. But it was the kind that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Powdered eggs?” she said softly. “You sure know how to sweet talk a girl.”

“I’ve had worse pickup lines,” he said with a chuckle, easing back in his chair. “But seriously, Mel... it’s good to be here. With you.”

A beat passed.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m glad you’re back.”

But there was something behind her voice. A hesitation. Not in the words, but in the way they floated across the table, like she wanted them to land differently than they did.

He watched her. Really watched her.

She hadn’t touched her scallops. Her shoulders were tight. Her gaze wandered every few seconds—toward the entrance, the servers, the low-lit corners of the room. It wasn’t paranoia. It was preoccupation. Something internal, gnawing.

“You haven’t touched your plate,” he said gently.

Melissa blinked, then glanced down like she’d only just noticed. She picked up her fork, then set it back down. Her fingers trembled just enough for him to see. Not anyone else. Just him.

“I’m fine,” she said, trying for casual. “Just… a long week.”

Kincaid leaned in again, elbows on the linen. “Mel. Talk to me.”

She looked up—and for half a second, he saw it. The glint in her eyes. Moisture she was trying to blink away. She pressed her lips together, exhaled through her nose. Composed. Barely.

“I didn’t want to ruin tonight,” she said, voice low. “I wanted this to be... normal.”

Kincaid didn’t rush her. He just held her gaze. That SEAL stillness—no urgency, just presence.

“It’s not normal,” she finally said. “And I’ve been trying to keep it together, I really have. But it’s getting harder.”

He reached out, slow, placing his hand over hers on the table. No pressure. Just there.

“Is it work?”

Melissa hesitated. Her lips parted. Then closed again.

“It’s… someone at work.”

Kincaid’s jaw tensed, but only slightly. He didn’t pull his hand back.

“Someone I need to know about?”

She nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

She looked around, voice just above a whisper. “It’s Commander Shepard.”

The name hit like a silent detonation. But Kincaid didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Melissa’s voice cracked. “He’s been—he’s smart, Lucas. Careful. He hasn’t done anything that would show up in an email or a camera feed. But he makes sure I feel it. That I know... he sees me.”

She swallowed. Her throat bobbed. “I told him to stop. Twice. But the way he looks at me—it’s like I’m prey. Like he’s just waiting for the moment I slip.”

Kincaid’s hand didn’t move. But his eyes had changed.

Harder now. Focused.

The hunter had just been told where the trap was.

Melissa blinked fast, whispering now. “I didn’t want to tell you. I know what you’ve been through. I didn’t want this to be the first thing when you got back.”

“It’s the only thing,” he said, quiet but firm.

He looked at her, really looked at her—then gently turned her hand over, lacing his fingers through hers.

“You’re safe now, Mel,” he said. “Whatever that bastard started… I’ll finish it.”

She didn’t cry. Not fully. But the tension in her shoulders finally dropped just an inch.

And for the first time all night, she breathed.

 

 

 

 

Cade Shepard’s Condo – Oceanfront, Virginia Beach
 2204 Hours | Three Days After the Dinner

The sliding door clicked shut behind him, the sound swallowed by the soft hush of surf just beyond the balcony. The glass caught the faint shimmer of moonlight off the Atlantic, smearing it across the living room like a watercolor wash. Cade Shepard loosened his tie with one hand, whistling faintly—Puccini, something from La bohème, though he doubted he could name the aria if pressed.

The condo was quiet. Ordered. As it should be.

He kicked off his shoes with precision and stepped onto the hardwood, enjoying the feel of polished grain beneath his socks. The scent of ocean salt mingled with the faint remnants of imported sandalwood candles and a hint of whatever the cleaner had used on the granite countertop.

Everything was just as he’d left it—until it wasn’t.

He stopped.

Mid-step. Mid-breath.

Something… off.

His eyes tracked the room slowly. The white couch, precisely arranged throw pillows. The bookshelf in perfect alphabetical order. The blinds drawn to the exact height—three slats showing, no more, no less.

Then it struck him.

The painting.

A seascape—Monet knockoff, nothing sentimental, but he’d hung it exactly seven-eighths of an inch from the molding. Tonight, it was a full inch. Tilted ever so slightly clockwise.

His jaw locked.

No alarm had gone off. No broken locks. No trace of forced entry.

But someone had been inside. Moved something. Intentionally.

A message.

Shepard stepped forward slowly, nostrils flaring, eyes scanning every surface. He reached the painting, adjusted it back by reflex—then stopped himself. Left it crooked. Evidence. Control.

He turned slowly toward the bar.

There it sat.

A small white placard, thick card stock, the kind used for place settings at formal Navy dinners. Nothing handwritten—typed. Clean. Precise. Almost surgical.

He picked it up with two fingers.

“I am watching you. Watch your step around my wife.”

No signature. No smudge. No misalignment in the type. Just black serif font on snow-white card, centered perfectly.

For the first time in years, Shepard felt something foreign in his veins.

Not fear.

Violation.

The hunter had been hunted.

He didn’t move for a full thirty seconds. Just stared.

Then slowly, deliberately, he walked to the balcony, slid the door open, and let the ocean air hit his face as the sound of waves filled the silence.

He stood there, still.

Someone had marked him. Not with a threat.

With precision.

And he knew—whoever left that card had been close.

Close enough to know exactly what would rattle him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fleet Forces Command – Main Admin Wing
 0842 Hours | Two Days Later

The morning bustle pulsed through the corridor—footsteps on waxed tile, clipped voices trading operational jargon, the occasional distant bark of a senior chief dressing someone down. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered just faintly, as they always did, humming above the stream of uniforms and unreadable expressions.

Yeoman Melissa Kincaid stood at the main admin console outside the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. Her fingers moved across the keyboard with practiced speed, finalizing the morning’s personnel dispatch for signature. She was focused. Efficient. But not unaware.

She sensed him before he spoke.

“Yeoman.”

The voice was soft. Polite. Too polite.

She turned.

Commander Cade Shepard stood exactly where she expected he would—just outside the envelope of her personal space. Not invading. Not touching. But there. Always just… there.

She straightened automatically. “Commander Shepard. Morning, sir.”

“Busy, as usual,” he said, flashing that practiced half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. “I’m beginning to suspect you run this entire building. The place might fall apart without you.”

She gave a professional nod, posture crisp. “Just keeping things squared away, sir.”

Shepard leaned slightly, scanning the clipboard beside her, as if the personnel rotation log was of any real interest.

“Speaking of squared away,” he said, tone light, conversational, “I noticed your husband’s name on a returning operator roster. Is he back from deployment?”

Melissa stiffened a fraction. She didn’t look up right away. “Yes, sir. He returned last week.”

Shepard made a small noise—an appreciative ahh. “That’s excellent. You must be… relieved. I imagine it’s difficult, being separated for so long.”

Melissa forced a measured breath. “It’s part of the life. We manage.”

“Of course,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “Though some SEALs struggle with reintegration. All that adrenaline. The quiet must feel so… foreign.”

He looked at her now. Really looked. Studying her the way a surgeon might study a scalpel. The weight of his gaze wasn’t about observation—it was about pressure. Controlled. Intentional.

Melissa didn’t blink. “My husband manages just fine.”

A pause.

Then, so casually it could’ve been mistaken for nothing at all, Shepard added, “I just hope no one rattles his peace. Some men… react poorly to perceived threats. Even imaginary ones.”

He smiled again.

There was no warmth in it.

Just precision.

Melissa’s pulse thudded, but she kept her face still. Steel under skin.

“Thank you for your concern, sir,” she said, her tone as flat as gunmetal. “But there’s nothing imaginary about boundaries being crossed.”

Shepard tilted his head, just slightly. A flicker of something behind the eyes—curiosity, maybe. Or calculation.

Then he stepped back, smoothing his sleeve.

“Of course. Boundaries are important. Always good to know where they are.”

And with that, he turned and walked away.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Just enough to let her watch him go.

Melissa exhaled once—quiet, sharp.

She knew exactly what had just happened.

So did he.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crossroads Café – Fairfax, VA
 0937 Hours | Just Outside the Beltway

The coffee shop was tucked between a dry cleaner and a boutique running shoe store, a narrow brick-walled holdover from when this neighborhood still had character. The bell over the door jingled softly when customers came and went, but no one looked up. The place smelled like espresso, worn leather, and quiet conversations best left unheard.

Chief Lucas Kincaid sat at a corner table near the back, the seat against the wall—always. A chipped white mug sat in front of him, half-full of black coffee, no sugar. He liked it bitter. It cleared the mind.

Outside the window, traffic thickened. The Beltway growled in the near distance. Inside, the hum of espresso machines and low jazz spilled into the air like smoke.

Kincaid flipped the page of a local newspaper he wasn’t really reading. One hand held the mug, the other traced idle patterns in the condensation on the side. A man could look lost in thought here and no one would think twice.

But Kincaid was not lost.

He was circling.

His expression was calm, even faintly amused. A quiet smile touched the corners of his mouth as he took another sip. It wasn’t joy—it was the anticipation of something inevitable.

Shepard had spoken to Melissa. Had stepped over the line again. Not an overt act. Nothing actionable. Just a whisper coated in charm, a sideways threat dressed in pleasantries. But to Kincaid, it had the same flavor as a tripwire in the dark.

The man had finally made it personal.

Kincaid tilted his head, watching a mother outside struggle with a stroller wheel stuck in a sidewalk crack. No one helped. The world kept moving.

He didn’t tap his foot. Didn’t fidget. Instead, he let his mind unspool quietly.

How do you dismantle a man who’s built his life on being invisible?
 Not with brute force. That would be noise. And Shepard thrived in noise.

No—this had to be surgical.

There were options. Too many, really. Kincaid sipped his coffee again, tongue brushing the inside of his cheek.

Burn him from the inside? Or bleed him with a thousand cuts?

Shepard was a narcissist—Kincaid knew the type. Needed to be admired. Feared. Needed control. So maybe the first move wasn’t confrontation. Maybe it was the opposite.

Doubt. Isolation. Let him feel the cage before the walls ever close.

He didn’t need to move fast. Not yet. Predators didn’t sprint. They stalked.

Kincaid leaned back, mug in hand, and exhaled slowly through his nose. His face was unreadable, but something behind his eyes burned steady.

Shepard didn’t know it yet, he thought, but he’d already lost the first move.

Because the game had started.  And this time, the prey was being hunted. 

Northern Virginia – U.S. Route 1 to Fleet Forces Command
 Over Three Consecutive Mornings | 0600–0730 Hours

The sky still held the slate-blue hush of pre-dawn when Lieutenant Commander Cade Shepard backed his graphite gray Audi S6 out of his secure garage. The car was spotless, predictable—German precision, understated, efficient. Just like the man behind the wheel.

What Shepard didn’t know, or perhaps refused to accept, was that the moment his garage door lifted on that first morning, Chief Petty Officer Lucas Kincaid was already watching.

Two blocks away, tucked behind the wheel of a faded blue Tacoma with a civilian plate cover and a subtle antenna mount under the chassis, Kincaid sipped his thermos and rolled the truck into traffic—just behind a bakery van. No rush. No need to tailgate. This wasn’t a movie. This was reconnaissance.

Day One: Pattern Recognition

Shepard made a left onto Old Dominion, rolled past the commuter bus stops without pause, turned onto Route 1 with mechanical regularity. Same route every time. Bluetooth on. Left hand on the wheel. Right thumb tapping his phone. Never looked in the rearview longer than a second.

Kincaid followed from three cars back. Let him pull ahead. Then caught up a mile later at a red light. Never in Shepard’s direct line of sight. Never behind him more than once per trip.

Kincaid noted the timing. Departure: 0615. Arrival at Fleet Forces Command gate: 0642. Same parking garage. Second level. North stairwell.

No deviation.

By the end of Day One, Kincaid had six time stamps, three turn patterns, and two alternate exit routes logged on his burner.

Day Two: Subtle Pressure

This time, Kincaid left just a few minutes later. Caught up outside the gas station off 31st Street. He didn’t hide the truck. Let it fall in behind Shepard’s Audi. Let the silhouette stay in the rearview just long enough.

Then dropped back.

Three miles later, caught up again. Switched lanes, let a panel van slide between them, then tucked in behind Shepard’s blind spot.

At the base gate, Shepard pulled in like always—ID out, window down. The guard waved him through.

But he looked into the mirror twice before turning into the lot.

Kincaid parked a block away, pulled out binoculars, and waited.

Shepard stepped out of his car a little slower that morning. Looked around the garage, eyes scanning like he was searching for something out of place.

The mouse had caught a shadow. Nothing solid. Nothing real.

Exactly as planned.

Day Three: The First Crack

Rain misted across the windshield as Shepard backed out of his garage again. Kincaid was already moving. He didn’t follow directly. He cut across three blocks and rejoined the highway six minutes behind.

This time, he looped ahead and parked on an overpass.

Watched the Audi come rolling up the merge ramp below. Same speed. Same cadence. The rhythm of control.

Kincaid leaned on the steering wheel, watching through light fog. As the Audi passed under the overpass, Shepard glanced up through his windshield—right at Kincaid’s location.

But there was nothing to see. Just a nondescript truck. Windows tinted. Engine off.

Still, Shepard’s eyes lingered as he passed. Just a flicker. Just a moment.

At Fleet Forces, Shepard took a different parking space.

A subtle change. A shift.

He’d felt it now.

Not just a shadow.

A presence.

Kincaid watched from across the street that morning, coffee in hand, baseball cap pulled low.

He smiled as Shepard scanned the lot before entering the building, shoulders a little stiffer, head on a slightly tighter swivel.

The trap hadn’t sprung.

But the mouse had smelled the cheese.

Switchback Roasters – Quiet Side Street, Arlington, VA
 1012 Hours | Light Rain Against the Windowpanes

The bell over the door gave a tired chime as Kincaid stepped into the warmth of the café. The place was half full—students buried in laptops, a pair of government contractors whispering over a redacted PDF, and a young mother bouncing a baby while thumbing through her phone. It smelled of burnt cinnamon, wet concrete, and dark roast beans—unremarkable, comforting, forgettable.

Just how he liked it.

Kincaid took his seat near the back, facing the door, as always. The table was small, wood scarred, the varnish wearing down at the corners. He set his cup down with careful precision. Black coffee, no sugar, still steaming.

Outside, rain streaked the window, blurring the line between the world and its reflection.

He sipped slowly, then leaned back, watching the surface ripple. His lips curled into a smile—but his eyes didn’t change. No warmth. Just the stillness of a man calculating from a position of cold.

Shepard’s rattled now. You can see it in the way he moves. The way he checks reflections. Breathes faster when he thinks no one’s watching.

Kincaid turned the ceramic mug in his fingers, clockwise, then back. Thinking.

But it’s not enough. Not yet. He needs a moment. A break in the pattern. Something he can’t explain away. Something that grabs him by the throat, cold and immediate.

He watched a couple argue silently near the cream station—tight shoulders, quiet fury. She held a scone like a weapon. He didn’t even notice.

Kincaid’s gaze drifted past them.

Shepard’s whole identity is about perception. Control. If you take that—if you make him look crazy to the people who matter—he’ll do the rest for you.

He let the idea settle, like sediment in a glass of water. Then took another drink.

What he needed was the moment—the beat in the psychological rhythm where everything went sideways. Something spectacular.

But not loud.

Not yet.

Leave a mark without leaving a trace. Make the room spin just a little. Let him question if he’s really alone.

The door opened behind him. He didn’t turn. Just sipped.

And smiled again.

That quiet, unsettling smile.

The kind a predator wears just before it steps into the open.

Switchback Roasters – Arlington, VA
 1043 Hours | Rain Tapping on the Glass Like a Clock

Chief Petty Officer Lucas Kincaid sat alone at his usual table—corner booth, back to the wall, eyes on the door, the steam from his black coffee curling upward in thin wisps. The café around him blurred into soft tones—idle conversation, a hiss from the espresso wand, rainlight pulsing against the windows like a heartbeat.

His hand cradled the ceramic mug. His expression—neutral, calm—was betrayed only by the faint smile pulling at one side of his mouth. Not amusement. Anticipation.

The kind of grin that never touched the eyes.

It’s time.

He leaned forward, tapping his index finger against the side of the cup as his mind walked the line—measured, methodical, step by step.

Phase One: Vehicle Assessment

Shepard’s Audi S6. Clean. Recent model. High-end German engineering, which meant passive keyless entry with RFID fob pairing, rolling-code encryption, CAN bus architecture for the alarm system, GPS-linked smartphone integration. Tight. Sophisticated. Vulnerable.

Kincaid had already ID’d the car’s VIN at the base. Knew the trim package. He’d spent three days noting where Shepard parked. Same second-tier garage spot. Northwest corner. Shadowed after 0100. No cameras.

He’d also walked the neighborhood—late nights, soft-soled boots, hoodie up. Noted the ambient light, the flow of patrol cars, the rhythms of civilian foot traffic. No security patrols past midnight.

Plenty of time.

Phase Two: Entry Point and Attack Vector

Option one: Brute force keypad cracking with a Flipper Zero or modified Pi rig.
 Too loud. Too detectable. Would leave a data trace Shepard’s paranoia would surely find.

Option two: RFID signal capture using a clone burst.
 Ideal. During surveillance last night, he’d walked within ten feet of Shepard’s front door while the man was inside. Flipper in his pocket. Sniffed the fob signal in under six seconds. Stored it. No alert triggered. Just enough juice for a one-time open handshake.

He took another sip of coffee, eyes distant.

Phase Three: Neutralizing the Alarm System

Once inside the Audi, every second would count.

Step one: Power kill.

Pop the fuse access panel—he’d already studied the layout. Pull the alarm fuse, then disable the backup using a GSM jammer tucked under the passenger seat.

Step two: Quick ECU spoof.

Plug the Tactrix Openport 2.0 into the OBD-II under the dash. Laptop already preloaded with a CAN injection script—emulates the key’s digital handshake, suppresses the immobilizer, freezes alarm triggers. It would read as a factory maintenance session. Clean. Undetectable. Five seconds.

Phase Four: The Gift

This wasn’t about tracking anymore.

Kincaid didn’t need to follow Cade Shepard’s movements—he already knew his patterns, down to which coffee lid the man preferred and how often he adjusted his mirrors at stoplights. What Shepard needed now wasn’t surveillance.

He needed humiliation.

The message had to land loud, visceral, and unmissable—but still leave Kincaid invisible.

So the “gift” would be something Shepard could feel—something that would stain the illusion of control he wore like a uniform.

Kincaid imagined it in detail:

The device would be no bigger than a paperback—custom-built, blacked-out casing, mounted with zip-tie anchors and rare earth magnets to fit flush beneath the steering column, tucked just above the footwell trim. Housing a micro-trigger circuit tied to the ignition relay, it would arm only when the vehicle shifted from ACC to ON—mimicking the voltage spike used in standard remote detonation systems. Nothing detectable by a basic diagnostics scan. No software trail.

Inside the box, a compact charge cavity—low-yield, shaped for dispersal not damage. Kincaid would mix a precise binary load of black rifle powder and cornstarch flour—standard prank-level flash. Safe, but effective. No flame. Just a controlled burst with a concussive pop and maximum surface coverage.

Packed above that: a compressed burst tube of white flour laced with fine red-and-silver Mylar confetti—the kind that clung to everything it touched. The moment the charge detonated, the contents would burst outward in a tight, cone-shaped spray pattern, aimed upward—center-mass.

Twelve inches in diameter.

No injury.

But unforgettable.

It would hit like a punch of absurdity: Shepard alone in his pristine Audi, uniform crisp, confidence high—until suddenly, he’s wearing a white powder chest wound and looks like a birthday clown got in a knife fight.

Even better? Kincaid would mount a thermal label inside the box, heat-sensitive and timestamped: “Next time it won’t be flour.”

No signature. No traceable residue. Nothing criminal. Just enough to make security pause, command raise eyebrows—and Shepard’s composure snap like glass under heat.

It wouldn’t end him.

Not yet.

But it would shake the walls of the fortress he’d built around his ego.

And Kincaid?

He’d be sipping coffee by the time the laughter started in the parking garage.

Phase Five: Exit and Reset

Slip back out. Re-secure the door. Re-enable the alarm. Jammer off. Gone in under four minutes. By the time Shepard’s garage door closes in the morning, Kincaid will have already tagged and bagged every mile of his commute, every detour, every midnight rendezvous.

He sipped again, eyes locked on the rivulets crawling down the glass.

And the best part? He won’t know I was ever there.

But he’ll feel it. Every time he slides behind the wheel. Every time he hears something in the engine he didn’t notice yesterday. Every time the dashboard lags by half a second.

The smile deepened.

Not in the eyes.

Never in the eyes.

Because this wasn’t about sabotage.

This was about message.

You are not untouchable.

And Lucas Kincaid would make damn sure Cade Shepard heard that message loud and clear—without a single word spoken.

Kincaid’s Basement Workshop – Northern Virginia
 2306 Hours | Two Nights Before Deployment

The basement smelled of machine oil, gun cleaner, and solder flux—blended into a scent that only men like Kincaid found comforting. A 6-foot solid oak workbench dominated the far wall, scarred with burns and scored with decades of projects, improvised tools, and the occasional det cord imprint.

Lucas Kincaid stood at the bench in a dark t-shirt and fatigue pants, sleeves pushed up, a red LED task lamp casting a surgical cone of light over his work. His hands moved with slow precision—confident, practiced, the way a man moved who’d once built explosives under sniper fire.

He wasn't making bombs tonight.

But the psychology was the same.

Device One: The RFID Replay Unit

First came the small black box—3D-printed shell, matte resin polymer, no markings. He cracked the lid and dropped in the Proxmark3 Easy board he’d modified the night before. It had cost cash in a surplus market out in Herndon—no serials, no receipts, no questions.

Wires were already soldered into place: micro coaxials trimmed and sleeved in shrink tubing. He used silver-bearing solder—higher conductivity, more reliable contact points in high humidity. The board housed a 125kHz LF antenna and a 13.56MHz HF loop. Dual-band.

He soldered in a 3.7v lithium coin cell, then added a micro toggle switch—flush-mounted. Powered on, the device would broadcast Shepard’s stolen key fob signature at full strength within a 1-meter radius. Range-tested last night. Success.

He loaded the firmware via USB-C to his old Dell XPS laptop—air-gapped, burned BIOS, never online. The cloned RFID signal stored from three nights ago confirmed via hash match. No rejection codes. Just clean, untraceable unlock.

He sealed the box shut with a bead of UV-cured epoxy, hit it with a penlight, and set it aside.

Device Two: The Flour-Confetti Dispersal Unit

Now came the art.

Kincaid pulled a second case forward—an innocuous plastic electronics project box, 4x6 inches, with pre-cut cable ports. This one, he knew, was going to live inside Shepard’s Audi S6 for only a few seconds—but it had to perform.

He began with the ignition sensing circuit: a voltage relay built from a 12V automotive relay switch, inline resistor, and diode-protected gate. He wired in a TI LM393 comparator chip, paired with a voltage divider that would detect the rise in voltage from ACC to ON—typically a shift from 11.7V to 13.2V on start. The relay would only close the loop when that precise spike occurred.

He installed a delay module—a small PCB with a 2.5-second pause. He wanted the charge to fire after Shepard had fully settled in. Not during door open. Not during ignition click. Just after. Right when he thinks he’s in control.

The blast mechanism was next:

• A 3D-printed directional cone, 4 inches wide, with interior rifling for flow control.
• He packed it with 90 grams of ultra-fine flour, filtered twice for consistent dispersal, and cut with talcum for better suspension in the air.
• Then the confetti—red and silver Mylar strips, 3mm by 40mm, pre-cut and electrostatically treated so they’d stick to cloth and skin.

The ejection charge was a custom-built micro-pyro cell:

• 1.5 grams of potassium nitrate/sugar compound packed into a heat-sealed plastic shell.
• A nichrome wire wrapped inside, resistance-calculated to ignite at 12V within 0.7 seconds.
• Power would be drawn directly from the ignition circuit—no battery required.

He mounted the charge in the chamber base, routed the wire through a ceramic sleeve to prevent heat transfer to the electronics, and secured it with thermal epoxy. Then tested the continuity. Clean loop.

Finally, he affixed a thermal-reactive label to the interior lid:

“Next time it won’t be flour.”
 The ink would only appear when exposed to 90°F or higher—exactly the temp it would hit inside the car’s sealed cabin.

Kincaid closed the housing, sealed the edges with a bead of hot glue, and wrapped the box in matte-black vinyl tape. No fingerprints. No branding. Just another forgotten sensor box under a dash.

He stared at the device for a long second.

This wasn’t revenge. It was warning fire. Loud. Messy. But bloodless.

He placed both units into a padded Pelican case lined with foam, slid the lid shut, and latched it down with a quiet click.

Then he stood, cracked his neck, and reached for the overhead light switch.

In the darkness, only the faint red LED still glowed.

His work was done. Now it was time to deliver.

 

Level Two – North Garage, Fleet Forces Command
 0342 Hours | Pre-Dawn | Silent Entry

The garage was concrete, steel, and shadow. Four levels high, rows of numbered stalls, and a security booth on the far south side that hadn’t been manned past midnight in over a year. The only light came from flickering sodium lamps—amber halos that cast more darkness than they cut. At this hour, it felt subterranean. Forgotten.

Chief Lucas Kincaid moved like vapor.

He entered the structure on foot from the east stairwell, having scaled a side wall behind the HVAC fence two blocks over, bypassing both base perimeter and the motion-activated gate camera with timed precision. He knew the blind spots. Had spent two weeks watching rotation logs, tracking the comings and goings of the overnight staff. There would be no patrols until 0415.

He wore all black. Combat boots softened with rubber sole wraps. Over that, a Tyvek painter’s suit with elastic cuffs and hood—not the kind you buy at Home Depot, but a cut-down version of a CBRN over-suit: non-porous, zero fiber shed. Over his mouth and nose, a charcoal half-mask. Nitrile gloves, doubled and taped at the wrist. A mesh balaclava under the hood.

No exposed skin. No hair. No breath. No DNA.

Stall 217. Audi S6. Shepard’s car.

Exactly where it always was. Angled just enough to let Kincaid approach from behind the driver’s side and stay out of the overhead camera’s lens flare. He paused three feet from the car’s rear bumper, scanning. No new scratches. No tilt sensor trip. Shepard hadn’t installed any secondary surveillance.

Still thinks he’s untouchable.

Kincaid slid the small black RFID replay unit from his jacket. Pressed the switch. The Flipper-encoded Proxmark3 inside buzzed once, transmitting the cloned fob’s handshake.

Click.

The Audi’s locks disengaged with a soft mechanical thunk. No honk. No flash. He waited—listened. Nothing.

Entry.

He opened the driver’s side door just wide enough to slip in, body compressed, feet carefully placed to avoid the door seal trim. The interior light did not activate—disabled in the car’s menu last week when Kincaid had accessed the system via public valet setting. He knew every menu Shepard never bothered to lock.

Inside, he moved quickly.

Alarm Disarm Sequence:

From under the dash, he pulled back the plastic trim plate—held in by friction tabs and two Torx screws, already loosened during a “maintenance visit” in the base garage two nights prior.

He connected the Tactrix Openport 2.0 dongle to the OBD-II port, reached into his shoulder pouch, and pulled out a modified Panasonic Toughbook—rubber-clad, battery only. He powered it up, bypassed the boot menu, and ran the custom CAN injection script he’d written three years ago in Mosul.

“Accessing… CAN handshake accepted… Immobilizer bypassed… Alarm suppressed.”

The dashboard lights flickered once. Silent. The alarm’s internal loop now saw the car as under authorized service. No logs. No fault triggers.

He unplugged the Tactrix, coiled the wire, and returned it to the pack.

Now the real work began.

Steering Column Access:

Kincaid removed the lower steering column cover using a stubby magnetic driver. Three fasteners. He caught each screw in a neoprene catch pad he’d taped beneath the column earlier that evening during Shepard’s lunch break. No one noticed a man under a car in coveralls during “valet maintenance.” They never do.

With the plastic cover off, he exposed the ignition harness—a neat bundle of color-coded wires zip-tied along the steering shaft. He unclipped the tie, rolled it gently down, and paused to scan with a pocket RF sniffer—no motion or tamper sensors. Just like he suspected.

Installing the Device:

The charge box—tightly wrapped in black vinyl—fit perfectly in the cavity behind the tilt mechanism. He secured it with two neodymium magnets bonded to the case, letting it snap gently into the steel bracket. No screws. No glue. Nothing that would leave a trace during removal.

Wiring:

• Red lead to 12V constant—he stripped exactly 4mm of insulation and used a military T-splice to wrap the lead without cutting the wire.
• Blue lead to ignition hot—same method.
• Black lead grounded to a chassis bolt Kincaid had already buffed clean with emery cloth.
  
  

Each connection was sealed with liquid electrical tape, then wrapped in black automotive loom that matched the factory bundle perfectly.

No zip ties. Just friction tension. Seamless.

He tug-tested each lead. No movement.

Final step: he toggled the onboard arming switch to “ready.” The thermal label inside the housing would remain invisible—until the car’s cabin warmed with engine heat.

Reassembly:

He re-bundled the harness with a matching zip tie, clipped the column cover back into place, reinserted each screw by hand, and wiped the plastic with a microfiber cloth to remove any latent oil trace.

Exit:

He slipped from the driver’s seat, relocked the door manually from inside, then exited through the back passenger door—staying below the window line. Once clear, he reached through and clicked the lock.

The door thudded shut with a quiet finality.

He stood, looked around once, then stepped backward into shadow.

No sound.

No trace.

No sign he’d ever been there.

As he moved across the garage floor, footsteps silent and measured, he smiled.

Not out of cruelty.

Out of precision.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

North Garage – Fleet Forces Command
 0657 Hours | Morning Rush Just Beginning

The second level of the garage buzzed faintly with the idle hum of early morning. A few engines echoed off the concrete walls—civilian contractors, logistics staff, enlisted personnel arriving in staggered shifts. The overhead lights cast long shadows behind every vehicle, every pillar, and one man walking toward his Audi S6 like he expected something to pounce.

Lieutenant Commander Cade Shepard’s gait was just a touch off this morning—shoulders drawn tighter, head on a slow swivel. His uniform was immaculate, as always: ribbons aligned, boots polished to a mirror. But the tension in his spine betrayed the calm. He wasn’t just walking.

He was sweeping.

Each step was deliberate. At stall 217, he slowed, circling the Audi once, eyes scanning the vehicle like a handler checking for tampered seals. Hood latch secure. Door seams clean. Side mirrors untouched.

To the untrained eye, he was a man in control.

To Kincaid—watching from three levels up through Zeiss ballistic tactical glasses with embedded long-zoom micro-optics—he was a man trying not to come apart.

The feed was crisp. 1080p clarity through the polarized lens. Shepard’s every twitch captured in sharp relief. Kincaid sat still, elbows resting on his knees, tucked into the corner of the stairwell utility alcove—a shadow in the concrete.

“Let’s see what you do when the wolf scratches back,” he thought, deadpan.

Shepard opened the driver’s door, one last scan of the garage before ducking in. He shut it behind him with more force than necessary.

The Audi’s interior swallowed him whole.

Kincaid leaned forward ever so slightly.

0700: Ignition.

From the upper deck, he saw it before he heard it.

FWUMP.

A dull, muffled pop—barely audible to anyone beyond the Audi. But inside?

It was thunder.

The flour charge detonated with surgical precision—driven upward in a cone from beneath the steering column. A blast of fine white powder and metallic red-silver Mylar confetti erupted straight into Shepard’s lap and chest.

Through Kincaid’s lens, it looked like a punch from an invisible hand.

Shepard convulsed in the seat—arms flailing instinctively, face twisted in raw shock. He gasped, choking, mouth agape as the confetti clung to his uniform, his neck, his chin. Flour coated his chest like ash. He looked down at himself—

And froze.

Breathing ragged. Chest heaving.

He stared at the mess, wide-eyed, mouth moving but no sound escaping. For a split second, he wasn’t just startled.

He was terrified.

He clawed at his chest like he expected to find blood.

Then—

He saw the thermal-reactive lettering slowly blooming in black ink across the inside of the dash panel:

Next time it won’t be flour.

Shepard went still.

Utterly still.

The panic didn’t fade—it calcified. Kincaid watched him begin to tremble in place. Not a shake. A tremble. A loss of center.

The invincible, calculating predator now cornered inside his own $70,000 fortress.

Kincaid’s lips curled into that same cold smile.

No mirth.

No warmth.

Just satisfaction.

Shepard’s hand hovered near the door handle, but he didn’t open it. He just looked around—wild-eyed—out the windshield, over both shoulders, into the corners of the garage where shadows moved without reason.

He didn’t know where the threat was.

And that was the point.

Kincaid sat back slowly, removed the glasses, and exhaled once.

Checkmate’s coming, he thought.

But for now—let him sweat.

 

 

Location: Shepard’s Condo – Virginia Beach
 Time: 0124 Hours | Five Days After the Flour Blast

The only light in the room came from the flickering glow of dual monitors—blue-lit, clinical, humming with static charge. Shadows stretched long across the walls of Lieutenant Commander Cade Shepard’s beachfront condo, warping across sleek white drywall and polished concrete floors. Outside, the Atlantic whispered against the shoreline, calm and indifferent.

Inside, Shepard’s world was tilting.

He sat hunched at a glass desk strewn with evidence—printouts, surveillance stills, internal security access logs. Dozens of 8.5x11 sheets pinned to the wall with surgical tape—each one marked with timestamp notations, cross-referenced with base activity reports and personal GPS pings. He’d printed them all from his own logs, his own devices. But what chilled him was the pattern he hadn’t made.

8:47 PM – a blurred shadow in the corner of his garage cam.
 1423 Zulu – his email to JTF-South appears to be forwarded, but there’s no metadata trail.
 0406 Hours – base door access shows his credentials used at a secondary SCIF he hadn’t entered in weeks.

He hadn’t imagined that.

He couldn’t have.

Unless someone’s manipulating the system…

Shepard’s jaw clenched. He ran a hand through his perfectly parted hair—though now it was beginning to fray at the edges. Not in appearance. In control.

He moved mechanically, fingers flying across the keyboard.

Command-prompt. Encrypted login.

/NAVINTEL_OS/ACCESS_REQUEST/
 TARGET: CHIEF PETTY OFFICER LUCAS KINCAID

The name felt like a flint strike behind his eyes. He hadn’t spoken it aloud—not yet. But he’d started circling it mentally after the blast. The flour. The confetti. The precision. The signature.

That wasn’t a prank. That was a message. And not one crafted by a disgruntled E-4 with a grudge.

No. That was professional.

And Kincaid had motive. Military bearing. Tactical knowledge. Proximity.

He’d returned from deployment just before the surveillance began. He had access. He had reason.

And he has Melissa.

Shepard’s fingers tapped furiously as he navigated through the secure intranet—an admin shell most officers weren’t even aware existed. Internal records. Service histories. Deep clearance dossiers.

ACCESSING RECORD: KINCAID, LUCAS A.
 —RESTRICTED FLAG: SPECIAL ACCESS CHANNEL ALPHA / TIER III-RED
 —AUTHORIZATION LEVEL: ABOVE OPERATOR GRADE

The screen blinked.

“WARNING: Unauthorized query attempt will be logged and flagged.”

He hesitated. Just a heartbeat.

Then tapped “Proceed.”

The data loaded in chunks. Redacted mission logs. Deployment theaters. Mentions of blacked-out joint task forces. SEAL Team 2 confirmed. EOD specialization. Covert asset liaison.

Shepard leaned back. Eyes scanning, lips barely parted.

He has the tools. The discipline. The background.
 More importantly—he has the mind.

But the moment Shepard saved a local copy to his encrypted partition, a silent flag tripped.

Elsewhere—far from his apartment, inside a SCIF in Norfolk—a server blinked red. Automated intrusion detection flagged an inappropriate access attempt on a Tier III-RED profile. The breach wasn’t major—but it violated protocol.

It was flagged under “Intelligence Curiosity.”

Routine.

But those flags always made their way to NCIS.

Back in the condo, Shepard didn’t know.

Not yet.

He was already unspooling the next step—deploying a webcam monitoring node outside his own building. He wanted faces. Plates. Movement.

He wanted to catch the ghost.

In the corner of the room, a high-gain directional microphone lay prepped on a folding tripod. Next to it: a USB capture dongle, a laptop with voiceprint software, and a bottle of bourbon with one pour missing.

His mouth was dry.

He stood, walked over to the wall, and stared at the photos again. His own face stared back from several—mirrors, reflections, camera captures. But behind him, always just out of focus, something was there. Maybe a figure. Maybe nothing.

But Shepard saw it now.

The game was being played against him.

And he wasn’t winning.

He didn’t sleep that night.

He just stared.

And the wall stared back

Crossing the Line
 Location: Melissa Kincaid’s Assigned Lot – Off-Duty Hours | 2047 Hours
 Four Days Before Shepard’s Detainment

The last rays of sunset had bled dry behind the sprawl of Norfolk, leaving the residential military housing complex bathed in sodium-yellow streetlight and deepening shadows. Neat rows of duplexes flanked the lot, government-issue landscaping and symmetry designed for security and order.

It felt sterile. Predictable.

Lieutenant Commander Cade Shepard rolled to a slow stop just beyond the streetlight perimeter in a nondescript government-issued black sedan, its plates scrubbed clean of any base decal. His fingers were clenched around the steering wheel at ten and two—tight enough to bleach the knuckles. The engine idled low, barely a vibration under the hood.

Through the windshield, he watched.

Melissa Kincaid stepped out of her vehicle—a dark blue Ford Edge assigned to her department—and shouldered a canvas messenger bag. Civilian attire. Her posture stiff with exhaustion. She keyed her lock and started toward her unit without looking back. Her silhouette slipped beneath a row of dusk-to-dawn lights lining the path to her front door.

Shepard tracked every movement like a sniper following a target in a scope.

He told himself it was justified.

He had to know.

She hadn’t acted like a victim. Not exactly. Too composed. Too calm. It had all felt too… measured. Especially the way she’d delivered that line in the admin hallway two weeks ago—“Then judge this. Don’t ever put your hands near me again.”

There had been conviction in it.

But also something else. Something rehearsed.

And then there was Kincaid. The timing of his return. The sudden shift in Melissa’s demeanor. The surveillance anomalies. The flour bomb humiliation.

None of it was coincidence.

Shepard tapped a finger against the console.

He’s using her. Manipulating her. She’s part of it—knowingly or not.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. No headlights. No foot traffic. Just the dull orange glow of government housing silence. He cracked the driver’s side window half an inch, letting the cool air seep in.

His rational mind knew this was off-book. Unauthorised. Unethical.

But that part of him was silent now—shoved deep beneath the tactical voice that had served him well for years.

This isn’t stalking. This is counter-surveillance. Counter-espionage.

He pulled out a small, ruggedized monocular from the glove compartment and raised it to his eye. Zoomed in. Her door opened. Light spilled out. She stepped inside. Closed it behind her.

Gone.

He logged the timestamp.

2049 Hours.

He stayed another five minutes, noting two cars that came and went—civilian contractors, likely neighbors. No signs of tailing. No obvious counter-intel sweeps. But something felt… watched.

He rubbed at his temple. The burn behind his eyes wasn’t fatigue anymore. It was pressure.

The kind that came before a breach.

Still, he wasn’t done.

He reached for the slim tablet beside him and launched a secure wireless access portal—ghost-linked through a cloned MAC address. Base security grid. Camera logs.

With a few clicks, he overrode the camera indexing delay and backdated the feed to his own arrival time—his vehicle now untagged in the visual scan. But what he didn’t see, what he couldn’t see, was the metadata flag embedded behind the image.

Because at that exact moment, in a separate server cluster tied to base physical security protocols, a low-level anomaly alert triggered: unauthorized base officer vehicle parked within residential housing sector—non-assigned zone—after hours.

It wasn’t a flashing alarm. Not yet. Just a line of red in a sea of green.

But like all military systems built on redundancy and audit trails… it logged.

It always logged.

Shepard eased back into drive and rolled out from the curb like a man finishing a recon sweep. Clean exit. No lights. He followed the loop out of the housing zone, turned off his dashcam, and killed the monocular’s recording.

As he merged onto the access road, he glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror.

His eyes were bloodshot. Brow creased deep.

But behind the fatigue was a cold certainty.

If Kincaid was behind this…

He wouldn’t see it coming.

What he didn’t know—what he couldn’t know—was that he’d just crossed the line.

Not into his enemy’s territory.

Into his own undoing.

And this time, every step he took… was being watched.

The Flash Drive
 Location: Naval Intelligence Secure Drop Point – Norfolk, VA
 Time: 0216 Hours | Two Days Before Shepard’s Arrest

The night was silent and starless—black velvet stretched over the tide-flattened coastline of Norfolk. The streets around Naval Intelligence Facility Charlie were deserted. Chain-link fences topped with concertina wire ringed the perimeter, lit only by motion-triggered floodlights. Inside the gate, concrete bunkers and hardened fiberline channels spidered beneath the earth like a secure nervous system—one built for secrecy, not comfort.

Lucas Kincaid moved through the darkness like a breath.

He wore no uniform. No insignia. Just a pair of loose utility trousers, a gray hoodie, and an old watch cap pulled low. The hoodie was dusted in clay residue—deliberately chosen to appear like a longshoreman’s, someone working night shift at the port. Even his boots were wrong for a SEAL: steel toe, frayed laces. Every detail was engineered to erase suspicion.

A paper envelope rode in his gloved hand.

Standard 9x12 manila. No markings. Sealed with a single strip of black electrical tape. Inside it sat a military-grade Kingston IronKey S1000 flash drive—zeroed six times using a forensic wipe, loaded with just four folders and a single .txt index.

He passed under the eastern access eaves, shadowed by the bulk of the hardened intel dropbox. It was armored, keypad-locked, isolated from the main data infrastructure—a secure intake used for confidential source material, whistleblower leaks, and internal incident reports.

Kincaid reached into his hoodie, pulled out a keycard—scrubbed clean, borrowed from a source he’d once pulled from a Yemen op gone sideways. He swiped it once. The terminal screen lit up. “Insert Credential Packet. No Retraction Possible.”

He fed the envelope into the slot.

The trap was now active.

He stood there a second longer than needed, just watching the machine accept it—like a priest watching a confession swallowed whole by fire.

Then he turned and walked into the dark.

Contents of the Flash Drive – Breakdown

/1_SURVEILLANCE_IMAGES/
 A folder of high-res photos, timestamped, EXIF data intact. Images captured from both Shepard’s building garage and Melissa’s housing unit lot.

• Shepard’s face visible in every image.
• Loitering. Lurking. In uniform, out of uniform. Always alone. Always watching.

Each photo was watermarked with a red overlay: “LOCATION: NON-ASSIGNED. TIME: OFF-DUTY.”

/2_SYSLOG_PINGS/
 Screen captures and plaintext log outputs from internal systems.

• Shepard’s terminal ID accessing Kincaid’s service record via Tier III-RED.
• The screen freezes just long enough to show “UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS – FLAGGED.”

Another file shows a pattern—Shepard accessing four additional service files belonging to female sailors in the last two years. All had prior informal HR notes.

/3_AUDIO_CAPTURE/
 The crown jewel.

Kincaid had planted a micro-recorder under Shepard’s steering column three nights after the flour incident. Powered by a vibration trigger. Calibrated to record only after ignition and for no more than five minutes. File was labeled:

“AUDIO_LOG_0718Z—SHEPARD_VEHICLE—UNEDITED”

The playback began innocuously. Shepard breathing hard. A long silence.

Then—

“You think that’s funny?” he mutters. “Flour. Cute. You think I won’t find out who—”*

A beat of silence. A deep exhale.

“That bitch thinks she can hide behind him? Let her. I’ll break her down. Same way I always do.”

The words hang, venomous. No bravado. Just truth, bleeding through the cracks.

“They think I don’t see what they’re doing. I see everything.”

Kincaid had trimmed nothing. No need. The rawness was the evidence.

/4_INDEX_FILE.txt
 A clean .txt file. Monospaced font. No identifiers. Just hard facts.

• Timeline of Shepard’s harassment complaints—five in the last three years.
• Notations where all five complaints were buried. Each tied to internal supervisors later reassigned.
• Highlighted: Melissa Kincaid’s recent confrontation. Dated, documented, with a cross-reference to the exact hour Shepard pulled her personnel file from the admin portal.
• Final entry:
  
   Shepard has escalated. Unauthorized surveillance. Accessing classified personnel files. He is not just unstable—he is a liability. This pattern isn’t new. But it ends here.
  
  
  

As the flash drive’s contents propagated into the intake node, a secondary security routine logged the submission, timestamped it, and pushed a copy to the Joint Security Oversight Council with an “URGENT – UNSANCTIONED CLEARANCE VIOLATION” tag.

It would hit a dozen inboxes before sunrise.

Kincaid didn’t need to wait.

The net was now closing.

And Shepard?

He’d never even heard the clank of the cage until the lock clicked behind him.

 

The Confrontation Without the Confronter
 Location: Fleet Forces Command – Operations Wing, Briefing Room B
 Time: 0719 Hours | Two Days After the Flash Drive Drop

The room smelled like burnt coffee, boot polish, and the faint ozone tang of old power cords straining under the load of too many projectors. Overhead fluorescents flickered once—a pulse, nothing more. Twenty officers sat in a U-shaped array around a long steel table. Uniforms razor-sharp. Eyes forward. Laptops open. The air was heavy with intel chatter and military formality.

At the front, Lieutenant Commander Cade Shepard stood with perfect posture, one hand on the podium, the other clicking through ISR satellite feeds projected onto the screen behind him. His voice was steady, clipped with professional cadence, betraying nothing of the storm behind his eyes.

“...high-altitude pass over the northern corridor reveals two thermal signatures consistent with IRGC Quds elements—displaced from their last known coordinates, likely mobile. We suspect...”

The door opened.

Two men stepped in.

No uniforms.

Plainclothes. Close-cut hair, hard eyes, posture like coiled wire. NCIS.

They said nothing. Took position against the rear wall like furniture with intent. Silent, watching.

Shepard clocked them instantly—didn’t falter, didn’t pause—but his jaw tightened, the muscle above his temple twitching once.

“...ISR assets will continue passive monitoring until—” he glanced at the room, just for a second too long, “—until confirmed exfil vectors are established. Questions?”

None.

Silence, the kind that doesn’t wait for an answer.

Then the lead NCIS agent stepped forward. Calm, professional.

“Lieutenant Commander Shepard,” he said, voice cutting through the room like a clean blade. “A moment of your time.”

Shepard blinked. Just once. A flicker in the still frame.

He smirked, lips curling with something practiced and tired. “This about my classified pull? I was already preparing a disclosure log. The access was related to an ongoing anomaly I’ve been documenting—”

The agent’s voice was flat. Measured.

“You’ll want to come with us.”

A ripple passed through the room. Not movement—just attention sharpening. Someone coughed, then didn’t again.

Another officer—Captain Nadine Wexler, base XO—stepped from the side wall where she’d been standing half-shrouded in shadow. She didn’t speak at first. She just held out her hand.

Palm up.

“Your access badge.”

Shepard froze.

You could hear the HVAC hum over the silence.

His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out at first. He looked at Wexler, then at the agents, then at the room—the stares. No one moved. No one smiled. The air had become thick. Pressurized.

He laughed once. Short. Dry.

“What the hell is this?”

No one answered.

No one needed to.

Shepard looked down. Slowly reached into his breast pocket, pulled the red-trimmed CAC card free, and stared at it for a moment. The symbol of access. Authority. Control.

He placed it in Wexler’s hand with two fingers, as though it might burn him.

“I’ve served with distinction—” he began, voice tight.

“You’re not being asked to explain anything right now, Commander,” the agent said. “Please come with us.”

The walk to the door wasn’t long.

But it felt like miles.

Shepard straightened his uniform. Lifted his chin. Marched.

But it wasn’t the same stride as before. It wasn’t command.

It was containment.

The door opened. Closed.

And that was it.

He was gone.

The silence hung a beat longer before someone breathed again.

Then—low, not mocking. Just... stunned.

A junior intel officer leaned to his right, murmured to the Lieutenant beside him:

“That guy was untouchable…”

A pause.

“Until he wasn’t.”

No one laughed.

Because everyone knew what they’d just seen.

The fall of a man who thought he was invisible—dragged into daylight by someone who never showed their face.

Psychological Collapse (Implied)
 Location: Fleet Forces Command – Two Days After the Confrontation

The walls were whispering now.

Not literally—but in the way that news, like a slow-burning fuse, moved through the ranks: in glances, in clipped sentences in stairwells, in hushed words passed under breath between briefing slides.

Cade Shepard’s name had become radioactive.

He was gone—physically removed from the command. No one saw it happen, but everyone felt the void. His parking spot remained empty. His office door stood closed, the nameplate still in place, but the keycard lock had been deactivated. Someone had taped a red ACCESS RESTRICTED slip over the handle.

It was as if he’d been surgically extracted from the building, cut from the chain of command like a tumor, and no one was quite sure who had wielded the scalpel.

In the corridor outside S-2, three intel analysts stood near the coffee station, pretending to refill empty cups that hadn’t seen liquid in an hour.

“They say he’s under psych hold at Bethesda,” one whispered.
 “Evaluation status,” added another. “Flagged unstable.”

“No—he’s not just out for observation,” the third said, lowering her voice. “NCIS is prepping formal charges. Multiple women came forward. It wasn’t just the Yeoman.”
 A pause.
 “They’ve got audio.”

The words hung like smoke. Nobody denied it.

No one could.

Inside the Joint Intel Center, a tasker memo had quietly replaced Shepard’s name with a placeholder: “LIAISON: TBD.”

It was a bureaucratic scalpel. Cold. Final.

Operations proceeded without him—too smoothly.

In the secured server room, an enlisted tech scrolled through access logs. Shepard’s old clearance code was still visible in the system—marked REVOKED, highlighted in red. His digital footprint had been archived. His workstation imaged. His network credentials pulled. Even his secondary token—a small brass fob with a rotating encryption seed—had been locked in an evidence drawer.

Someone had changed the label from CDR SHEPARD – PRIMARY to EXFIL / HOLD PENDING.

At chow, nobody mentioned him outright. But the silence around his absence spoke louder than any accusation. Forks clinked a little quieter. Laughter ended a few beats sooner.

Even those who had once admired him—his crisp bearing, his brilliance, his presence—didn’t speak his name. Not now. Not after what they’d heard.

“He snapped,” someone muttered near the vending machine.
 “Paranoid delusions. Said someone was following him.”
 “He thought he was being hunted. Like, actually hunted.”

There were murmurs about a psychotic break. One officer had quietly mentioned seeing him at the medical clinic before the arrest, pacing in the lobby, muttering to himself. Talking about surveillance. Ghosts. “Signals in the walls.”

And the most chilling part?

“He didn’t even deny the audio,” one of the NCIS liaisons had confided behind closed doors.
 “Just stared at it. Like he didn’t recognize his own voice.”

Somewhere in Bethesda, in a secure psychiatric evaluation ward draped in sterile lights and silence, Cade Shepard sat alone—no phone, no access, no uniform.

Just a man in a facility gown, stripped of insignia, the hum of recycled air his only company.

They said he barely spoke now.

Just muttered.

About shadows.

About traps.

About someone who knew him better than he knew himself.

Someone he never saw.

And so the whispers moved like wind through the base.

Soft. Relentless.

The fall of a man who flew too high, in a world where no one stays untouchable forever.

Especially not under watchful eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kincaid Walks Away
 Location: Dam Neck Naval Annex – Oceanfront Boardwalk
 Time: 1918 Hours | Two Days After Shepard’s Collapse

The wind off the Atlantic rolled in slow and deliberate, salt-heavy and cool against the skin. It carried the soft hiss of waves breaking against the shoreline, distant and rhythmic, like a pulse slowed by peace. The boardwalk creaked underfoot—weather-worn planks faded to gray by time and sun, their edges softened by sand and memory.

Lucas Kincaid walked alone.

No uniform. No gear. No weight on his shoulders save for the wind and the slight shift of his canvas jacket. His boots were civilian—scuffed, creased leather with cracked soles. Nothing tactical tonight. Just a man beneath a sky bruised with fading light, where navy bled into orange at the edges of the world.

The beach was mostly empty. A few silhouettes in the distance—joggers, dog walkers, base personnel winding down with headphones and silence. No one paid him any mind. That was how he preferred it.

He reached the pier and stopped.

The wooden railing was smooth beneath his palms. A fresh coat of sealer covered the old etchings of initials, deployment dates, and careless teenage love carved years ago. He leaned forward slightly, the breeze catching the edges of his collar, and stared out at the water.

The ocean didn’t answer. It never did.

It just was.

Kincaid raised the paper coffee cup to his lips—black, lukewarm now. Bitter. Exactly how he liked it. He took a slow sip and let it settle. The wind tugged at the edge of his sleeve. Somewhere behind him, a gull cried once and fell silent.

His phone buzzed.

A single vibration. No ringtone. Just a pulse against his thigh. He didn’t rush to check it.

Instead, he stood there a moment longer, letting the wind speak first.

Then he pulled it from his pocket—an old, cracked Android with no biometrics, no backup.

One message.

From a number he didn’t recognize. Burner.

He’s been pulled. Investigation classified. You didn’t hear it from me.

No sign-off.

No name.

Didn’t need one.

Kincaid stared at the screen for five long seconds. His expression didn’t shift.

Then—just the smallest change. The corners of his mouth lifted.

Not a cold smile.

Not triumph.

Just… done.

A flicker of release. A breath uncoiled from something deep in the chest.

He tapped once. Deleted the message. No reply.

The screen went dark, and the phone slipped back into his pocket like a ghost fading into the deep.

He stood there a while longer, staring at the black horizon. No movement. No signal. Just the quiet churn of a sea that had seen everything and forgotten nothing.

Behind him, the boardwalk lights blinked on—one by one—illuminating the path back toward the base.

Kincaid didn’t turn yet.

He wasn’t thinking about war.

Or vengeance.

Or justice.

Only the stillness.

Only the wind.

And the silence he’d earned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Last Image
 Location: Naval Medical Center – Ward 7C, Psychological Evaluation Unit
 Time: Unknown

The room was silent save for the faint buzz of fluorescent lighting and the low, ever-present hum of climate control. The walls were the color of driftwood—neither warm nor cold, just… blank. Like the man seated inside them.

Lieutenant Commander Cade Shepard sat in the far corner of the room, motionless except for the tremor in his right hand—barely noticeable, like the quiver of a leaf in still air. He wore institutional blue scrubs. No name tag. No rank. No insignia.

The man who once wielded fear like a scalpel now looked… faded.

Not old.

Just emptied.

His eyes were fixed on a point in space no one else could see. Unblinking. The pupils dilated slightly. As if expecting something to appear from the corner. A whisper. A shadow. A shape in the mirror behind the glass. But the mirror only reflected the sterile room. The bolted-down chair. The scarred metal table. And him—alone.

His fingers twitched again. Left hand this time.

No guards. No restraints. Just observation. A notepad in the nurse’s station logged the pattern: minimal speech. Disassociation episodes. Responsive but detached. Occasionally murmuring incoherent phrases.

“She knew… they knew…”
 “Couldn’t… couldn’t see him…”
 “Red. Flour. Smile…”
 “Kincaid... maybe… maybe not…”

The doctors labeled it “stress-induced decompensation.”

But that was the clinical term.

The truth? He’d come apart like porcelain under pressure—cracks invisible until they ran too deep to repair.

Not from guilt.

Not even from exposure.

But because he never saw the hand that reached into his life and took it apart piece by piece.

There was no courtroom. No confrontation. No catharsis.

Only a name whispered into silence. A ghost who never showed his face.

And that, more than anything, was what broke him.

Shepard’s mouth moved. No sound came. His eyes tracked movement that wasn’t there.

He wasn’t angry.

Wasn’t even afraid anymore.

He was just… gone.  Unraveled.

 Location: Dam Neck Boardwalk – Twilight, Two Weeks Later

The sea breathed like an old machine, steady and infinite. Wind chased the foam across the sand, and the sky above had settled into bruised cobalt, the last streaks of daylight sinking westward.

Lucas Kincaid stood at the edge of the world.

Alone.

His silhouette leaned against the wooden railing of the pier, the dark waves stretching out before him. He wore plain clothes—boots scuffed with salt, windbreaker zipped halfway up, collar turned against the cold. No rank. No weapons. No symbols of war.

Just a man with sand in his cuffs and silence in his bones.

The air smelled like tide and wet rope. Somewhere behind him, the muffled laughter of a couple walking a dog faded into the distance.

Kincaid didn’t move.

He watched the horizon like a man studying something vast and unknowable—something that gave nothing back, but accepted everything.

Justice had come.

Not in the way people imagined. No courtrooms. No medals. No press releases.

Just a truth whispered through darkness.

A reckoning no one saw.

And the man who delivered it?

He didn’t wait for thanks.

He just… disappeared.

The wind picked up, snapping the hood of his jacket. He pulled it tight, lifted his coffee cup in a small, absent toast to the sea, and turned away.

Kincaid turned his collar up against the wind, the waves crashing in rhythm behind him. Justice, he’d learned, didn’t always wear a badge. Sometimes it wore a ghost’s smile—and walked away before the smoke ever cleared.