Ghost Warrior III : Sins of the Father

Chapter 1

January 2009

The wind had a knife’s edge that morning, cutting through the bare trees and driving grit across the cracked parking lot of the Choctaw Nation substation. A dull, pewter light hung over Atoka, flattening everything under the weight of January.

Inside, Lieutenant Ray Walker stood at the front window, a old worn mug of coffee cooling in his hand. He wasn’t drinking it anymore—just holding it, watching steam curl and vanish in the stale fluorescent light. Behind him, two night-shift officers were finishing reports, the clatter of keyboards echoing through the cinderblock quiet. A quiet night, just a few traffic citations and a single DUI. One drunk sleeping if off in the lone cell in back.

Walker’s eyes drifted to the lot, where the early morning mist blurred the outlines of patrol units and the flagpole. The air smelled of cold metal and dust. 5:47 a.m. by the wall clock. He’d been at this too long to believe in quiet mornings—they usually meant something was winding up somewhere else.

He sipped the coffee, grimacing. The pot had burned an hour ago. He thought about making a fresh one, then didn’t bother. The hum of fluorescent lights filled the silence, and from the back room came the slow, steady rhythm of the HVAC fighting a losing battle with the cold.

Walker had spent most of his adult life in uniform—half Choctaw, half Scotch-Irish, all tired. Twenty-eight years in law enforcement, fifteen of them in this squat cinderblock building that leaned slightly under its own weight. He knew every creak of the floor, every loose tile, every ghost story tied to the land it stood on. He didn’t believe in much anymore, but he did believe the ground here remembered what men wanted to forget.

He took another sip, grimaced, and set the cup on the counter.  Then he saw headlights.

An old yellow cab rolled slow into the lot, its paint dulled and pitted with rust, one headlight fogged over like a blind eye. It rattled to a stop parallel to the front door, the engine coughing twice before settling into a rough idle.

Walker frowned. He didn’t see many taxis this far out.

Walker frowned. Taxis didn’t come out here this early, not unless someone had nowhere else to go.  The back door opened.

An elderly man stepped out—thin, deliberate in his movements, cane in one hand and a small duffel over his shoulder. His hair was long and gray, tied neatly at the nape of his neck. His face was carved with lines, Choctaw through and through—broad cheekbones, deep-set eyes, weathered skin that carried the story of too many hard miles. He wore pressed jeans, a chambray shirt buttoned clean to the collar, and boots that had been polished long after they’d earned rest. A bolo tie hung straight at his throat, tarnished silver catching the porch light.

He leaned into the cab window, paid the driver, and watched as the car pulled away, its taillights swallowed by fog.

The old man stood there for a moment, staring at the ground as if steadying himself. Then he looked up at the building, studying it like a man facing something long avoided.

Walker set down his cup and opened the door before the man could knock.  For a moment, he just stood there. Staring at the building. He looked worn, old, but proud. His clothes were worn, but cared for. He appeared, almost dignified.

Walker moved to the door and opened it, letting a blast of cold air spill inside.

“Morning, sir,” he said evenly.

The old man turned his head, eyes catching the light—clear, sharp, and weary all at once. “Morning, Lieutenant. Mind if I step in? Cold’s got a mean bite today.”

Walker held the door. “Come on in. Heater’s barely keeping up, but it beats the wind.”

The man nodded once and stepped inside, the cedar cane tapping against the tile. A trace of dust and wood smoke followed him in before the door closed behind.

“Coffee’s hot,” Walker offered. “Helps thaw the fingers.”

“Hot’ll do fine,” the man said with a faint smile.

Walker poured a cup, handed it over, and leaned against the counter. The old man wrapped both hands around the mug, soaking in the warmth before taking a small sip. His fingers were scarred and swollen, but steady.

“Appreciate it,” he said softly. “Been a long road.”

Walker gave a small nod. “You from around here?”

The man took another sip before answering. “Used to be. Been gone near forty years now.” He paused, eyes drifting toward the window where the gray light was growing. “Didn’t think I’d ever see this place again.”

Walker waited. He’d been doing this long enough to know when to keep quiet. People will tell you more if you don’t ask.

Sure enough, the man went on. “Name’s John Nashoba. Born and raised a few miles south of here, down by the river flats near Tushka. Used to be good bottom land before the floods. My family’s all gone now, far as I know.”

Walker nodded slightly, the name registering but unreadable on his face. “Been gone awhile then.”

“Too long,” John said. He looked down into his coffee. “I left wrong. Shamed my family when I did. Was married young—wife was expectin’ when I ran out on her. Drinkin’ had its claws in me. Drugs too, after a while. I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t even look her in the eye anymore.”

Walker studied the man’s face quietly. The confession came flat, not performative. Just truth worn thin.

John continued, voice low. “Her father ran me off. Hard man—Choctaw full-blood. Nashoba Chitto Hattak. Folks called him Chitto. He told me if I didn’t leave, he’d bury me out behind the barn. And he meant it.”

Walker didn’t move, but the name hit him square in the chest.  Chitto. The old wolf. Long dead now. The kind of man whose name carried weight long after the body was buried.

He took a careful breath, keeping his tone neutral. “That name’s familiar. You said he was your father-in-law?”

John nodded slowly. “Yeah. He was right about me. I wasn’t worth savin’ back then. I left her with nothin’ but a bad name and a broken heart. Heard later she died bringin’ the child into the world. I heard she had a boy. I should’ve been there, but… the bottle always came first.”

He stopped talking. The quiet filled the room again. The heater clicked on, blowing a thin stream of warm air that barely cut the chill.

Walker let the silence stand. He didn’t look away from the man, but he didn’t speak either. He knew exactly who sat across from him now.

Tucker Nash’s father.

Walker remembered the funeral. The stillborn hope that hung over the house. The baby boy crying in his uncle Minko’s arms while old Chitto stood outside alone, face like stone.

The story had always been that the boy’s father had drunk himself to death somewhere down in Texas.

But here he was—alive, flesh and bone, forty years older, haunted but upright.

John took another small sip of coffee, then said quietly, “I been thinkin’ about her a lot lately. About him, too—the old man. I figure he’s gone by now.”

Walker nodded once, casual. “He passed a few years back. Lived long enough to see a lot of change.”

“I reckon he did.” John’s voice softened. “He wasn’t wrong to hate me. I earned it.”

Walker studied him. “You got people you’re hopin’ to find?”

John nodded. “Yeah. Just… my family. If any of ‘em are still walkin’ this ground.”

Walker kept his tone steady. “Names?”

John hesitated. “Don’t know what name the boy carries. Not sure whatbthey named him, or who raised him. He’d have to be near forty. Born after I left. I don’t expect he’d know anything about me, and I ain’t sure he’d want to.”

Walker’s jaw tightened a fraction. “You want me to check around?”

“I’d be grateful if you could.” The man’s eyes lifted briefly, meeting Walker’s. “I don’t need contact. Don’t want to bring trouble to their door. Just want to know if they’re alright. That’s all.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Walker said evenly. “Might take a few days.”

“That’s fine. I’ve waited forty years. Few more won’t hurt.”

He gave a faint smile—more a gesture than expression—and looked back into his empty cup. The weight of it all sat heavy in the small room.

“You got somewhere to stay?” Walker asked.

“Not yet. Cab driver mentioned a place down by the feed mill.”

Walker grimaced. “That place’ll take your money and your boots. Try the boarding house on Main. Old Mrs. Greer. She’ll rent by the week, no questions.”

“I appreciate it, Lieutenant. You’ve been kind.”

Walker shook his head lightly. “Just doin’ my job.”

John nodded, his gaze dropping. “You ever try to outrun somethin’ that was always faster than you?”

Walker studied him a moment. “Once or twice.”

John smiled, tired and small. “That’s what I figured.”

He rose slowly, cane finding the floor with a hollow tap. The movement wasn’t weak—it was deliberate, controlled. A man who’d learned how to live with old pain.

“Thank you for the coffee,” he said quietly. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”

Walker opened the door for him. The cold air swept in, stinging his face.

“You take care, Mr. Nashoba.”

The old man nodded. “I intend to. World don’t hand out many second chances. Gotta take the one you get.”

He stepped outside, pulling his coat tight. The cane tapped against the concrete as he crossed the lot, his silhouette fading into the morning fog.

Walker watched him go until he was swallowed by the gray, then shut the door and leaned back against it. He stayed there a long time, the hum of the heater filling the silence.

He didn’t write anything down. Didn’t call dispatch. Didn’t say a word.

Some truths had to sit awhile before you touched them.

Finally, he picked up his cup of cold coffee and muttered to the empty room, “forty years gone, and now you show up.”

Outside, the wind kicked up, scattering dry leaves across the lot.

Walker looked back toward the window, toward the pale horizon breaking over the Choctaw hills. Somewhere out east, maybe on the Virginia coast, Master Chief Tucker Nash was probably awake already—running drills, mind sharp, unaware that the man he’d buried in stories was walking the earth again.

Walker stayed there long after he was gone, eyes on the empty road. He thought of Tucker—his discipline, his silence, the way he carried his past like a rucksack he’d never set down.

“Damn, Nash,” Walker muttered under his breath. “You’re not gonna believe this one.”

He turned away from the window, the first edge of sunrise breaking weakly through the clouds. Tucker Nash would already be up—running drills, chasing ghosts of his own.

And here in Atoka, one of those ghosts had just come home.  The day was starting, but it already felt heavier than most.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

0430 hours, Dam Neck, Virginia — DEVGRU Urban Warfare Complex

The mock city smelled like cordite and wet plywood: cheap, sharp, manufactured danger layered over the salt in the air. Floodlights slashed through the dawn fog, turning the painted storefronts and alleyways of the urban village into a stage set for violence. Shipping containers stacked like rubble. A rusted sedan sat half-embedded in a storefront, driver’s side door ripped off and propped against a cinder block as if it had been in a real crash. Every piece of scenery here had a purpose; every dent and smear of fake blood was a cue the operators read and answered.

Master Chief Tucker Nash moved through Kill City like a man who’d been born to the geometry of it. He wore his kit like armor—HK416 in the hands of a man who didn’t fumble, NVGs slung up on his helmet, a plate carrier trimmed with mission-essential pouches. The light hit the scar above his brow and the set of his jaw and early-morning sleep evaporated from his team’s faces.

They were six: Nash in the lead, Doc Peters offset as the breacher and corpsman, Mateo “Boomer” Ruiz with the charge bags and remote demo, Elias “Rip” Ripley on water/close-quarters support but today on entry point two, Will “Breaker” Barron with Ceasar, the Team Doberman—K9 in armored harness—on point for building clearing, and Jason “Keys” Kwon feeding the team overwatch with drone telemetry and breacher cams. Shade was on comms from the command tower, surgical and still.

“This is Vulture Actual,” Tucker said into the throat mic, voice flat, clinical. “Phase One: vehicle interdiction—south corridor. Expect civilian role-players, one armed courier, two SIGINT targets. QRF response window fifteen minutes. Fragables rigged at door three, non-lethal distractors in lane two. We execute hard, hold ground, extract VIP to LZ Bravo. Move on my mark.”

Every man checked into the radio with the quick tactile gestures the unit had trained to muscle memory. No showboating. No wasted speech. The staging lane filled with low light and low breaths.

They rolled in a beat—Boomer’s hand on a folding breacher, Keys scanning tablet overlays, Doc slinging a compact shotgun as secondary breaching tool. Ceasar’s harness gave the dog a small camera feed to Keys—an extra set of animal eyes the tech could push into the feeds. Tucker’s plan was simple because simple works: deny the vehicle the lane, force the driver to stop, isolate threats, clear the vehicle and adjoining structure, then accept and secure the VIP. The complexity lived in contingencies—what if the driver bailed with an IED? What if the courier reached for a pistol before the vehicle stopped? What if the QRF used RPG blanks or thermite simulators to screen the retreat?

They executed as if the variables were already decided.

The interceptor SUVs moved up: matte black, low profile. Breaker hopped from the passenger side, Ceasar a leash between his hands and the dog already forward, nose to the air. Boomer and Doc stacked behind Tucker’s left shoulder. Keys crawled low to the technical panel, drone feed thermal flaring as they crossed the mock street.

Tucker’s voice: “Hammer left. Sledge right. Breaker, Ceasar—breach left wheel well, pin driver. Boomer, be ready for cook-off. Doc, watch muzzle sweep on your side. Keys, give us a feed.”

The sedan—role-player frantic, hands on the wheel—got the physical nudge it needed. Breaker’s entry point was surgical: a short, practiced burst of aggression; Ceasar’s muzzle clamped lightly under the driver’s chin, forcing compliance without unnecessary harm. In training you could see the choreography—man, dog, steel—but the danger felt real. The courier tried to twist, the simulated pistol a flash under his coat. Boomer’s hands were already across his. The two-man cuff was assertive, efficient. Doc’s shotgun shouldered and knocked a palm away when the role player reached for the console; the breach had been stopped without rounds fired at the target. That one inch of reaction time was the difference between hospital and home.

The driver was secured. The sedan’s hood popped, revealing a mock IED—battery packs wired to simulated detonators. Boomer’s voice was quiet, practiced: “IED on vehicle, secondary intact. Stand off.” Breathing slowed once the device was confirmed inert. In a heartbeat they moved from interdiction to containment, setting up a rough perimeter using the sedan as a shield and calling in the simulated EOD.

“Vulture, this is Shade—EOD on the way. Hold tight. We’re green for movement in sixty,” Shade’s voice came through, precise.

Movement shifted toward room clearing. The building attached to the sedan—an urban storefront—was staged with role-players inside: one courier down, two clerks terrified, and a hiding place set for a SIGINT asset. Breaker and Ceasar took point; Doc and Rip stacked to breach right; Keys fed live cams to the team’s helmet displays so they could see the corners before they saw them with their eyes.

The first door was a test: pyrotechnic charge set to simulate a flash-bang detonation, and behind it a pair of role-players miming disorientation. Tucker’s stack flowed through like water—one, two, three—breach, dominate, clear. Breaker’s entry with Ceasar was surgical, dog’s jaws clamped to a sleeve as he located the hidden suspect. Doc moved to do immediate trauma checks as the simulation threw foam and smoke into the tiny space.

“Sim rounds are hot,” Keys murmured—meaning the team was willing to receive penetration of paintball-style projectiles. The corridors smelled of smoke, the taste of reality biting their tongues. A role-player screamed, adding to the stress but in a way that trained response rather than panic. Amid the chaos, Tucker’s voice remained a cold metronome: “Contact in room three. Two at eleven. One down. Ceasefire on sim once we account—account.”

Accounting took seconds that felt like minutes. A man on the upstairs balcony—role-player designated courier—tried to use the distraction to shift through a window to the back alley. Rip was already on the stairwell, firing two low-velocity sim rounds that hit the railing where the courier’s shoulder had been, forcing him to halt. Breaker moved up the inside, Ceasar at his heel, securing the balcony access and corralling the opposing role players. Discipline and geometry closed the gaps; their training did the rest.

Then the second scenario shifted—ambush in the alleyway. Two cars had been parked to create a funnel. Role-players in opposition threw smoke and a simulated incendiary—pyrotechnic that bathed the lane in orange light—designed to mask a secondary ambush. In the heat of a live drill the brain’s micro-tasks compete: shoot, call, move, don’t step into the kill zone. Boomer’s eyebrows tightened; he signaled quickly, slicing through the noise.

“Rucker lane blocked. Lanes three and four—extract point west. Keys—suppressive drone on the alley, two left flank. Rip—pop smoke, then cross with me. Breaker and Doc hold building. Nash, you take the west corridor; I’ll lead the east sweep.”

They moved like a single organism, translating lead into direction and direction into survival. Keys launched a micro-UAV into the lane; its thermal feed displayed on helmets, revealing two mimed assailants behind the dumpster. Boomer set a remote charge on the opposite side of the alley to stop an ingress route, the small bang pared back by shrapnel blankets—realistic but controlled. Rip’s voice cut through: “Contact neutralized left, one down, one moving to gutter.”

Extraction always exposed soft spots. The VIP—an injured role-player wearing a trauma moulage—had to be moved under smoke and the constant threat of simulated incoming. Doc anchored the casualty’s airway and slung him into an A-frame carry, tactical as a surgeon, while Breaker watched for hostile returns. The team layered smoke, flash, and suppression in a way that only repetition and trust could choreograph.

The exfil point was a battered transport van at LZ Bravo. Engines spun in the cold as range cards and string radios kept the timeline on a razor. The van’s rear doors yawned open to receive the casualty; Titus—simulated medical evacuation—stood ready. As they loaded the VIP, a thunderclap of sim rounds peppered the corrugated walls, jolting equipment and heart rates.

Tucker’s breathing was steady, his eyes a scanner. “Load, secure, move. Keys, you’re with me. Boomer, get the demo kit ready to route if we take a push. Breaker, dog on lead—hold our six. Doc, you’re with the patient. Rip, take overwatch on the elevated box behind the laundromat.”

Movement out of the alley was messy like all real fights—tactics run imperfectly, muscles and minds doing the best with the worst. They used the van and a line of stacked pallets to block the alley, creating a narrow corridor of egress. As they moved the last twenty meters to the van, a secondary QRF—opposing force role-players with SIM trench launchers—rolled into the angle and compressed the exit with a coordinated threat.

The response pivot was textbook. Boomer engaged transitional suppression with a series of 203-type simulators, explosive smoke that chewed the already thin visibility. Keys lit up a camera network, providing the team with a split-screen of the QRF’s approach. Rip engaged a long-range suppression that kept the QRF pinned long enough for the van to roll. Breaker whistled, Ceasar snapped to attention, and the dog’s harness camera gave a last-ditch view of the van doors as they slid shut.

The van pulled away, engine protesting the weight, and they moved into the next phase: mobile ambush counter and vehicle interdiction on the run. The training loop put their skills to theatre-grade pressure—vehicle speeds, live comms snapped between drivers, and the need to keep the pile moving while keeping the cargo safe.

It ended dirty and real: the van limped back to a staging area, the victim simulated with stabilized vitals, hands shaking, adrenaline still high. Helmets fogged. Kits were checked. Gear clinked with the sound of someone else’s life saved and someone else’s mistake almost made.

They gathered in a tight semicircle under the crane light, breaths smoking in the cold. No triumphant laughter. No dramatics. Just the mechanical motion of men who had done their job and knew the truth: next time the variables might not favor the practiced moves. The pyrotechnic smell lingered, floating in the air like a reminder.

“End of exercise,” Shade said, crisp over the net. “All units hold and maintain. Sim casualties accounted. EOD voice says IED was inert and cleared. Great tempo. Comm discipline solid. Individual debrief inbound at 0430.” He didn’t sugarcoat; he used the language of rehearsal—and the language of consequence.

Tucker stood with his hands on his rifle, the muscles in his forearms tight. He didn’t move first; he rarely did. Then he let out the breath he’d been holding, slow, without fanfare. Doc clapped a hand on his shoulder—brief, human—which was all the acknowledgment needed. Boomer and Rip already had hands on their kit, checking magazines, checking faces. Keys thumbed through a data pad, already flagging video for the AAR.

They’d run the simulation hard. They’d tested vehicle interdiction under ambush, medical extraction under fire, suppression in confined corridors, and improvised containment when the enemy tried to close the ring. The role-players had helped by staying convincingly unpredictable. The smoke and the sim rounds had turned theory into the real stuff: sensory overload and the need to make clean decisions under pressure.

Tucker looked at each man in the ring—faces lit by the glow from a generator light—and felt the same steady, cold certainty he always felt after a good evolution: the training held; their trust in each other did, too. They had moved as a unit. No flamboyance. No heroics. Just calibrated lethality.

He unclipped his headset and let the silence settle. The complex hummed with the aftersound of simulated combat. Somewhere downrange, the pyros hissed; the role players were already packing up their kit, gloves on hands that had been doing this as long as any of the operators. The mock city’s storefronts stared at them, paint flaking in the rising sun.

Tucker tucked his rifle and glanced at Keys. The tech was already queuing footage for review—helmet cams, drone overlays, breacher cams. The kind of record that let them see what they’d done right and what they’d almost let go.

“Good tempo,” Doc said, low. “Med lane held. No preventable lapses.”

“Comm discipline,” Boomer added. “No radio clutter. That bought you the lane sweep.”

Rip grunted. Breaker mashed the dog’s harness, and Ceasar whuffed like smoke leaving a lung.

Tucker nodded. His voice came out soft but authoritative. “We keep the rhythm. We tighten the dead space on the west corridor. Keys, clip me the east-overwatch feed—there’s a gap at T-minus-0:16 you flagged.”

Keys’ fingers moved, already slicing the footage. “Got it. I’ll pull the ISR stack and drop the timestamp.”

They stood in that ring of tired competence, the complex around them cooling down, the sun eating into the fog. No one celebrated. No one ducked. They simply finished the task the way they’d started it—exact, efficient, unadorned.

— — — — — — — — — — — -– — — —

0600 Hours – Debrief Room 3

Naval Special Warfare Development Group (DEVGRU), Dam Neck, Virginia

The smell of burned propellant and sweat still clung to the team when they filed into the briefing room.  The exercise smoke had seeped into their uniforms and hair; every breath tasted faintly of cordite.  The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed in the kind of stale air only government HVAC could produce.  The operators dropped into metal chairs around the oval composite table, plates and vests stacked in a corner, helmets lined like skulls along the wall.

A muted projector hummed against the far bulkhead, waiting for someone to kill the overheads.  On the big screen: a still frame from a helmet-cam—the last seconds of the exfil.  The van in mid-turn, pyrotechnic haze curling through the alley, the flash of Ceasar’s harness camera catching the chaos in infrared.

Commander Julian “Shade” Mercer stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled, mug of black coffee cooling beside a binder that looked older than the base.  He didn’t raise his voice.  He never had to.

“Alright,” he said.  “Exercise GW-U-14 complete.  Urban-mobility interdiction, one hour thirty-two minutes from first contact to LZ Bravo.  No real injuries, two simulated KIA, four civilian role-players extracted safe.  Let’s talk about what mattered.”

He looked around the table—six faces, six versions of exhaustion that still hummed with adrenaline.

Master Chief Tucker Nash sat halfway down, arms folded, expression blank.  The sweat had dried into gray lines on his temples.  To his left, Doc Peters was already unwrapping athletic tape from his wrist; to his right, Breaker Barron kept a quiet hand on Ceasar’s collar, the big dog stretched out under the table, chest still rising fast.

“Keys,” Shade said.  “Feed.”

Jason ‘Keys’ Kwon tapped his tablet, and the projector flickered to life.  Helmet-cam footage rolled: the convoy crawl through the mock city, early-morning fog split by headlamps, the clipped callouts of trained men.  The footage switched between body cams and overhead drone, angles tagged with timestamps.

Shade pointed to the first freeze frame—vehicle interdiction phase.  “Alright.  Stop there.”

He sipped coffee.  “Overall execution solid.  Intercept window met.  But timing on your left-flank containment drifted.  Boomer, that’s you.”

Mateo ‘Boomer’ Ruiz lifted his chin.  “Copy.  I delayed half-beat waiting on traffic sim to clear the kill zone.  Didn’t want to light civvies.”

Shade nodded once.  “Right call, but next time communicate the delay.  Nash didn’t have your eyes.  Team can’t adjust to what it doesn’t know.”

Tucker gave a small nod.  “Agreed.”  His tone was even, not defensive.  “We read hesitation as equipment jam.  Shifted stack forward early.”

Shade marked it on the binder.  “And that pulled your casualty lane five meters too soon.”  He glanced toward Rip Ripley, whose expression hadn’t changed since he’d sat down.  “Rip, you improvised cover with the dumpster—good initiative.  But you exposed your left hip crossing the vehicle’s cone.”

Rip’s gravel voice rumbled.  “Copy.  Didn’t have a wall, used what I had.”

“Exactly,” Shade said.  “Just remember: the only thing a dumpster stops is paperwork.”  The dry humor drew the faintest smile from Doc.

Keys advanced the footage.  The projector threw color and movement across the walls—the breach, smoke, flash, Ceasar lunging into frame, his camera jittering with motion.  The dog barked once under the table, recognizing his own sound, tail thumping against Breaker’s boot.

Shade let the moment breathe, then pointed with his mug.  “Breaker.  Dog handled well.  But you broke stack early at door two.”

Breaker nodded.  “I —” he caught himself, corrected, “Ceasar picked up the planted explosive scent, so I took initiative.”

Shade’s brow lifted slightly.  “And initiative’s why you’re breathing.  But communicate it.  Nash had you slotted as flank.  He shifted Doc to cover your lane.  That gave us a three-second communication void.  Three seconds in the real world’s three lives.”

Breaker accepted it with a clipped, “Understood.”

Shade gestured toward the next time-stamp: the building breach.  He stepped back as the footage played—the flashbang pop, the stacked team pouring through.  Tucker’s voice over comms, cold and precise: ‘Room one clear.  Moving.  Hallway right.  Contact left.’

Shade let it run another fifteen seconds before pausing.  “Let’s talk aggression versus control.  Tucker—walk me through your decision to push second floor before you had full downstairs clearance.”

Tucker leaned forward slightly, forearms on knees.  “We had auditory confirmation of movement above us—footsteps, male voice.  Risk of losing the target outweighed risk of unsearched lower rooms.  I trusted Rip’s backfill to hold perimeter.”

Rip gave a single nod.  “Confirmed.  Secured stairwell, no bleed.”

Shade considered, then nodded once.  “Tactically sound.  But this is the Development Group.  We don’t stop at sound; we aim for perfect.  Use the pause point and call your float earlier.  The second-floor team had six extra seconds of isolation.  They handled it, but don’t rely on that luck.”

“Yes, sir.”

Keys scrolled to the extraction phase.  The video’s tone changed—the chaos of the alleyway, smoke and shouting.  The simulated QRF bursting through side access, SIM rounds striking metal.  The camera shook with the kind of realism that made stomachs tighten.

Shade’s voice stayed level.  “Alright, here’s where it got sloppy.  Boomer, you executed demo to block pursuit—solid.  But you dropped comms halfway through.  Lost your mic for thirteen seconds.”

“Wire snagged,” Boomer said.  “My fault.  Didn’t switch to secondary.”

“Fix it before next evolution.”

“Yes, sir.”

Shade turned toward Doc.  “Medical lane—walk us through the casualty extraction.”

Doc clicked his pen against the table once before speaking, his voice calm, professional.  “Sim casualty had leg trauma, airway clear but unconscious.  I applied tourniquet and converted to A-frame carry under smoke.  Minimal exposure time.  Ceasar provided flank security.”

Shade nodded.  “And you didn’t lose pulse in transport.  Excellent.  Only critique—your comms discipline.  You broadcast heart rate to team channel; next time use the med-net.  Keeps tactical channel clean.”

“Roger.”

The video rolled again—van doors slamming, the QRF’s pyros lighting the sky orange.  Even in playback, the adrenaline lived inside the footage.  Keys paused at the freeze-frame where the van cleared the alley.

Shade rested both hands on the table.  “Alright.  Let’s talk about that endgame.  I know everyone’s pulse was maxed, but our doctrine doesn’t change: communication first, fire second.  Nash, your call on the retreat timing?”

Tucker looked up.  “We’d lost feed on Keys’ overhead at that point.  I had no eyes on the second QRF team.  Based on radio delay, I estimated thirty seconds to encirclement.  Pulled early to preserve asset.”

Shade studied him a moment, then nodded.  “Right choice.  Always choose survival over a textbook finish.  You’ve been doing this long enough to know the difference between risk and vanity.”

Doc smirked.  “Chief doesn’t do vanity.”

Shade ignored the comment but the corner of his mouth twitched.  “Still, you can tighten the evac path.  Vehicles were offset twenty degrees from LZ mark.  Correct that and you shave eight seconds off load time.”

Keys pulled up the overhead drone footage.  The image panned out—gray simulation city under fog, white heat signatures crawling like insects through the streets.  Shade traced one finger along the map.  “See this?  Right here.  The truck’s too far into lane four.  If this had been live, you’d have exposed your rear arc.  Correct in next cycle.”

“Yes, sir.”

Shade set his mug down and exhaled once through his nose.  “Alright.  Positives.  Communication—eight-and-a-half out of ten.  CQB flow—strong.  Breach discipline—improved from last quarter.  Medical extraction—best I’ve seen from this team since Bahrain evals.  Keys, your tech integration was seamless until the feed loss.  Good work keeping eyes when smoke blanked IR.”

Keys gave a small nod.  “Redundant frequencies help.  I’ll tighten the encryption lag.”

“Do that.  And Boomer—those demo charges?  Flawless placement.  The engineers are still scratching their heads how you rigged it that fast.”

Boomer shrugged.  “Dead air’s just free time.”

Doc muttered, “That’s what my ex used to say.”

A ripple of restrained laughter broke the tension for a moment, rolling through the table like a sigh after a firefight.  Shade didn’t stop it; a little pressure release was good medicine.

He waited for quiet.  “Alright.  Let’s hit psychological tempo.  Rip—your read?”

Rip leaned forward, elbows on the table.  “Morale held.  Team’s synced.  We’ve trained the aggression out of panic.  Ceasar’s reading the stack better than half the fleet canines.  Only issue is over-anticipation.  We chase perfection so hard we risk missing good.”

Shade nodded slowly.  “Good observation.”  He turned to Breaker.  “Handler’s note?”

Breaker scratched Ceasar’s ear absently.  “Dog’s keyed in.  Still pushes corners early when there’s too much noise.  That’s on me.  I’ll desensitize with live-fire next week.”

Shade accepted that without comment.

The footage stopped; the screen went black.  Shade flipped a switch and the fluorescents hummed back to life, bleaching the room.  The sudden brightness felt like stepping out of combat into bureaucracy.

“Alright, last piece,” he said.  “We ran this evolution to measure readiness, not just performance.  What I saw was a unit that trusts instinct without losing precision.  That’s rare.”  His gaze moved around the table, steady.  “But remember—training doesn’t forgive arrogance.  You carry complacency into the field, it kills friends.  You keep humility, it saves them.”

No one spoke.  The sound of Ceasar’s breathing filled the space.

Shade straightened, gathering his binder.  “We’ll rerun this evolution next week with modified variables—night ops, real vehicles, civilian clutter increased by fifty percent.  Debrief notes are logged.  Tucker, you own re-coordination with Logistics for ammo restock and pyros.”

“Roger that.”

“Keys, I want all camera feeds synced and backed up to red server before zero-eight.”

“Already uploading.”

“Boomer, fix your mic.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Breaker, Ceasar gets checked by the vet tech before next cycle.”

Breaker nodded.  “He’s good, just amped.”

“Do it anyway.”

Shade closed the binder, took a sip of his cold coffee, and said the line that ended every debrief he’d ever run.  “You don’t get better by believing you’re good.  You get better by remembering how easily it goes wrong.  Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped.  Boots hit tile.  The operators filed out one by one, gear slung, shoulders rolling the fatigue away.  Rip flicked the lights off on his way out; Keys’ tablet screen cast the only glow left in the room.  Boomer muttered something to Doc about breakfast; Doc answered with a grunt that might’ve been agreement.

Tucker stayed seated a moment longer.  Ceasar padded over and sat by his leg, the weight of the dog’s head pressing against his knee.  He rubbed behind the ears absently, eyes on the black screen still faintly reflecting their outlines.

He didn’t speak.  Didn’t need to.  The silence said enough—their rhythm held, the training had purpose, and the ghosts that always walked with them stayed quiet for now.

Outside, the sky over Dam Neck was turning from gray to blue, the sound of the surf mixing with the distant crack of another team’s live-fire drill.  Tucker stood, clipped his helmet under one arm, and walked out into the hallway.  Behind him, the projector’s fan wound down to silence.

— — — — — — — — — — —- — — — — —

Oklahoma City — DEA Field Office
January 2009, 1530 hours

The sky outside Agent in Charge Luis Delgado’s office had the color of cold iron. Snowfall came in a thin, steady sheet, not the theatrical kind that carpeted roads and shut cities down, but the kind that blurred edges and left a taste of rust in the air. It was the sort of weather that made you keep the heater a hair higher and your temper a fraction sharper. Delgado rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the grit of three straight days with almost no sleep. The tap of his pen against the stack of manifest paperwork had long before stopped being rhythmic and become an annoyance. He was finishing the last of the dry work—the dotting of I’s, the crossing of t’s—closing a case that had chewed three long days out of him and didn’t intend to give them back.

He straightened in the chair, arms aching where the desk leaned into him like a confession booth. There were a hundred little threads to tie—witness statements to reconcile, surveillance logs to timestamp, the kind of bureaucratic housekeeping that took the adrenaline out of an otherwise clean interdiction. He had the kind of fatigue that made him both brittle and methodical; sleep-deprived cops could still be dangerous when they were precise.

The phone on his desk began to ring.

He stared at it for a beat and muttered under his breath, What now. He almost let it go to voicemail, assumed a junior agent or a courier with a signature needed. He had five more minutes of quiet he could afford. Then it rang again—sharp, insistent—and a point of irritation moved his jaw. He almost ignored it again until the third ring, then the fourth. On the fifth ring, he snatched it up, voice a rasp, “Delgado.”

A low chuckle came through before the caller spoke. “Rough day, Luis?”

The voice was familiar, a little-graveled at the edges, the kind of voice that belonged to someone who wore years on his shoulders the way some men wore medals. Luis’s brain cleared in an instant, the fog of sleep scattering. “Ray?” It came out softer than he meant; recognition warmed the line.

“Sorry to call so late,” said Lieutenant Raymond Walker, reservation police, Atoka. There was no apology in it—only efficiency and a hint of impatience. “You got a minute?”

Delgado listened to Walker breathe, heard the cadence of someone standing in a small police station with winter outside, the kind of place that taped windows in bad weather. He felt the way the conversation might tilt—small Texas towns tended to drop odd things into federal lap. “It’s three days of not sleeping, Ray. I’m barely human. Make it quick.”

Walker’s voice came blunt. “Does the name John Nashoba mean anything to you?”

The name landed with the weight of something that needed handling. Delgado sat up straighter, the pen falling forgotten to the blotter. He tasted something like adrenaline under the fatigue. “John Nashoba? No—can’t say I’ve heard it in thirty years. Last I heard, he was dead. Died a drunk and drug addict, really into heroin and meth as I recall, a damn mess. Why?”

Walker did not waste air. “He was in my office this morning. Walked in looking for his family. Says he left here years ago, ostracized. Claims he’s trying to find them. Looks…okay. Sober. Clean. I ran a few checks this morning—NCIS, state, federal. Got a trail, but it goes dark about 10 years ago.” Walker’s tone tightened on the last word, a hint of the concern that had jolted him awake that morning.

Delgado pinched the bridge of his nose. The name triggered something he had filed away as a local rumor, the sort of family skeleton that lived like static in the background of reservation and military lore. He remembered old cases, public records, a whisper of a man whose life had cratered in the ‘80s and ‘90s. “You say he walked into your office? There in Atoka?”

“Yeah.” Walker was brief, efficient. “He said he left thirty years ago. Said his wife’s father was Nashoba Chitto Hattak—Chitto. He said Chitto run him off. Said his wife died giving birth and the baby was raised by Minko and Chitto. That part tracks. But the man’s records? They’re a mess before he dropped off the radar. I thought if anyone had a file on him that might give me a lead, it’d be you.” A beat. “You ever hear that name—Nashoba—in any of your old files?”

Delgado let the name Chitto hang there. He’d heard it uttered like a cautionary tale in the past—old warrior, hard hands, sharper mouth. He’d read a few declassified notes over the years, a cameo in a joint report, the kind of name that had weight in tribal memory and a lambda in federal notes. “Yeah. I heard the stories from Minko’s folks. Chitto was no angel, but he was a hard kind of man. Not the kind you crossed lightly. But a good man.  If he had issues with this fella, I am sure they were deserved.”

Walker’s breath was a slow line on the phone. “I figured as much.” He didn’t ask for sympathy. He just delivered facts. “I checked NCIS. There’s a record of an armed robbery conviction in Texas. Looks like he served a stretch—Texas Department of Corrections—about twenty years ago. Before that, a long string of short stints in county jails. Ninety days here, six months there; DUI, petty theft, public intoxication, possession. It’s a rap sheet as long as my leg between his thirties and forties. Then, ten years ago, nothing. Like he dropped off the face of the earth.”

Delgado swallowed. The cadence of Walker’s recital painted the man’s life in broad strokes—addiction, crime, punishment, disappearance. It fit a pattern Delgado had seen before, men who spiraled until institutions became their home and then slipped out when the doors opened for them to exit. “So you’ve got thirty years gone and then—nothing?”

“Exactly.” Walker’s voice tightened with the puzzle’s jagged edges. “Twenty to twenty-five years of documented jail and prison time, then ten years nothin’. No records, no arrests, nada. If anyone had reason to know whether he popped up under an alias or crossed a state line with a different name, I thought maybe the DEA might have a paper trail somewhere—Houston or OKC. NCIS has their thing, state has their thing. I’m hoping your intel can stitch this together. Does he ring any bells for you?”

Delgado’s mind began to roll through the usual contacts—Houston Field Office, their informants, any deconflicted case files that flirted with reservation traffic. He thought of an old source in Houston who had moved on to a private trucking firm but still owed him a favor. He thought of a defunct task force that used to handle cross-border shipments through the Gulf corridor. He thought also of the ghost of unfinished business beneath his skin—the cases that never quite reconciled and the men who had chewed up his patience and spit out their lives.

“John Nashoba.” He said the name out loud, letting it anchor. “I haven’t touched a case on him because I never had a tangible lead. But your timing may be right. If he’s walking up and down the reservation asking for family, he’ll put his feet in the puddle of whatever current he hopes to swim in. I can ping Houston. I’ll call Vince in the FO there—he’s got hands on cartel moving patterns through the Gulf states and Texas. He might find an alias or an arrest that didn’t make it into NCIS’ printout.”

Walker exhaled a sound that could have been relief. “That’d be more than I can do. I got a patrol to run and a community to manage. If this is Tucker’s father—and I think it is—I’d rather not embarrass anyone by making a big scene. I don’t want to drop a rumor that shakes families before we know the facts.”

Delgado’s voice softened despite the concrete knots of procedure. “You’re being prudent, Ray. So am I. If he’s clean and wants to put things to rights, we don’t pry without cause. But if he’s using family as cover to move product or launder money, we don’t play dumb either. You want this handled delicately; I’ll do the same while I dig.”

Walker’s tone had a line in it that Delgado picked up on. He was protective—not just of community, but of something threaded to his own past. “Ray, the name Nashoba… it’s not an ordinary label. You sure of the pronunciation?”

Walker’s impatience flickered. “Yeah, Luis. That’s what he said. John Nashoba. He used the old family name. Said old man Chitto was his father-in-law.” He paused. “I didn’t want to call you unless the man checked out enough to make me think it wasn’t just a deranged claim.”

Delgado rubbed his temple, trying to clear a skull fog that nagged him like an old injury. He thought about the timeline Walker had given. Thirty-year absence, incarceration twenty years ago, then a decade of nothing. Men went quiet for a dozen reasons. Sometimes they made themselves small to get clean, sometimes they disappeared into another life, and sometimes they went dark to keep their enemies from finding the trail. The possibility that John Nashoba had changed—no longer a drunk, sober, seeking his family—was as plausible as the opposite. “Alright, Ray. I’ll call Houston. I’ll check our indices—state, federal, international notices. I’ll also reach out to an old DOC contact. Sometimes paroles get routed through different offices and that’s where you find paper trails people think are gone.”

“You do that,” Walker said. “I’ll keep my mouth shut. If he is who he says, he deserves to be treated like any other man trying to put his life back together. But if there’s anything that smells off, I’ll pull the plug and we’ll handle it like we handle everything else.”

Delgado’s jaw worked. He appreciated Walker’s prudence; he also understood the appetite for truth that could not be easily satisfied by procedural niceties. “Ray, one more thing. If this turns into more than a family matter—if he’s connected to anything moving onto tribal lands—I’ll want a line on any traffic. You keep me in the loop. Don’t let paper trail lull you into thinking this is just nostalgia.”

“No kidding,” Walker said. “I don’t plan on burying it in the desk drawer. I’ll call you if anything else comes up before you hit Houston.” There was the faint echo of fatigue in his voice now, a man who had been awake with the small storms of his own town.

Delgado ran his thumb over the phone’s edge, thinking of the work ahead—calls to make, databases to search, a Houston FO to wake and prod. He thought of Minko’s stories he’d heard over beers years ago and the quiet dignity in names like Chitto. “I’ll pull what I can today,” he said finally. “Give me until tomorrow morning to cobble something together. If Vince in Houston can dig, I’ll get back to you by mid-morning. If I find something tonight, I’ll call you directly. And Ray—be careful with the man. Not because he’s dangerous necessarily, but because truth has a way of hitting people like shrapnel.”

Walker’s chuckle was short, wry. “Luis, we both know that. I’ll do the right thing.”

They exchanged the terse formality of men who’d worked together on cases both small and large, the mutual acknowledgement that the world they guarded entertained few certainties. Walker hung up first, leaving Delgado with the scratch of the receiver settling back into place. The office felt quieter for a beat once the line disconnected. Delgado let the weight of his fatigue reassert itself for a moment—then reached for the phone and began making the small, efficient lists of names and numbers he’d need to call.

Outside, the snow slid across the parking lot in thin curtains, the city moving on in its layered hurry. Delgado keyed the first contact into his phone, a number he’d called too many times in the course of his career. He scrolled through case names and acronyms that mattered for this kind of scrape: NCIC, state DOC indexes, Houston FO narcotics, parole boards. He formatted his first e-mail into crisp sentences, the kind that left little room for misinterpretation: John Nashoba—Atoka lead—possible family tie to Nashoba Chitto Hattak—requesting intel on alias usage, arrests, incarceration locations, parole status.

For a man exhausted to his marrow, the few minutes it took to assemble the initial outreach felt like building a frame around a house that might shake with winter wind. He hit send and sat back, feeling the tremor of something starting. Then he dialed another number, the one that would take him closer to the dust of Houston’s streets.