The cemetery fell so silent you could hear the rain hitting the marble headstones. Monica’s face drained of color, her performance of grief replaced by an immediate, visceral terror.
General Kingston’s eyes stayed fixed on mine, ignoring the reporters who were now sprinting toward us. “We recovered encrypted files from Caleb O’Connor’s final operation,” he continued. “He did not die protecting American soldiers.”
My muscles tightened until I felt like I might snap.
“He died during an illicit intelligence exchange inside a hostile compound after attempting to sell critical satellite coordinates to enemy combatants,” the General stated clearly. “He was trying to sell the real-time movement data of your own unit, Major Hunt.”
The world tilted on its axis, and for a moment, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Caleb had not just abandoned us; he had actively tried to facilitate the slaughter of my entire tactical team.
My children would have been left without a mother because their father wanted a payday badly enough to commit high treason.
Behind the General, Diane started screaming that it was a fabrication and that her son was a patriot, but Frank looked as if he might collapse right there in the mud. The reporters turned their cameras toward the O’Connor family, capturing every second of their public disintegration.
General Kingston didn’t even look back at them. He reached into his coat and pulled out a thick, waterproof envelope stamped with red ‘TOP SECRET’ markings, handing it directly to me.
“The intelligence you recovered in your own unit’s firewall prevented the breach,” he said, his voice lowering so only I could hear. “Because of your actions, not a single member of your team was lost.”
Then, the General nodded to the military police who had been waiting at the perimeter. They surged forward, surrounding the pavilion as the media frenzy reached a deafening roar.
Frank tried to argue, his face turning a shade of purple, but an agent shoved him toward the transport van. Diane was still shrieking, her mascara running down her cheeks, as she blamed me for their downfall, calling me a traitor to their family.
I never uttered a single word to her. She was not worth my breath.
I pulled my children closer, shielding their eyes from the sight of their grandparents being handcuffed and led away. Monica sat motionless on the folding chair, her hands shaking as a federal agent read her her rights.
The Honor Guard suddenly descended upon the casket, their movements sharp and efficient. They ripped the American flag from the wooden box without a shred of ceremony and marched away, leaving the casket looking small, cheap, and entirely unremarkable in the pouring rain.
General Kingston stepped closer to create a wall between us and the chaos. “You are the only hero standing in this cemetery today, Major,” he said, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of genuine respect in his cold eyes.
CHAPTER 3: THE END OF THE LIE
The aftermath of the Arlington disaster was immediate and absolute. Federal agents swarmed the grounds, and the reporters—who had come for a tear-jerking story about a hero’s death—found themselves documenting a far grimmer tale of treason and corporate greed.
