Chapter 4 - The Welcome Mat
Fourteen hours later, the heavy wheels of the C-17 Globemaster military transport slammed onto the tarmac at Norfolk Naval Air Station.
The cargo bay doors groaned open, letting in the cool, damp Virginia night air. Blake Dean stood near the rear ramp, dressed in a sharp dark jacket and jeans, his tactical duffel bag slung over his left shoulder.
Behind him stood three men who looked like they belonged in a dark alley rather than a civilian airport.
Vance was forty, built like an iron safe with a thick beard and a quiet, terrifying aura of total competence. Miller was thin, sharp-eyed, a master marksman who evaluated every distance in target ranges. Cruz was twenty-eight, a tech and electronic warfare specialist whose fingers flicked across an encrypted tablet.
Blake pulled his civilian phone from his pocket. The moment it reconnected to the local cellular network, a barrage of notifications flooded the screen.
The first was a text from Nurse Sarah: Emily is out of surgery. Both legs were set with titanium plates. She is stable, room 412, but guards from the county sheriff's department are stationed at the floor entrance.
A second message appeared immediately after—sent from an unlisted, burner phone number.
It was a photograph.
The image was taken from the hallway outside room 412 at St. Jude’s Medical Center. Through the glass window, Emily could be seen lying in the hospital bed, her legs wrapped in heavy plaster casts, IV tubes hooked to her arm.
A text message followed the image:
WELCOME HOME, SOLDIER. COME SAY HI TO THE BOYS.
Vance stepped up beside Blake, leaning over his shoulder to look at the glow of the screen. "Problem, team leader?"
Blake showed him the screen, his jaw set so tight the muscles twitched under his skin. "He’s watching her right now."
Cruz walked to the edge of the transport ramp, popping a piece of gum into his mouth as he looked across the wet tarmac toward the civilian terminal. "Hey, Blake. Look down at the tarmac gate."
Blake walked to the edge of the ramp, looking through the torrential rain.
Parked beside the private aviation terminal gate, their lightbars dark but their engines idling, were two black-and-white Henrico County Sheriff’s cruisers. Two deputies in dark uniforms were leaning against the hood of the lead car, watching the military transport with cold, arrogant patience.
Cameron Voss didn't just know Blake was home. He had bought enough influence within the local police network to receive real-time updates on military transport arrivals.
"They think they're setting an ambush," Vance muttered, a low, dangerous rumble in his chest.
"They think we're playing by civilian rules," Miller added, adjusting his dark cap over his eyes.
Blake looked down at his phone, then back at the two cruisers waiting at the gate. The time for defensive posture was over.
"Cruz," Blake said, his voice flat, devoid of anger, entirely focused. "Jam their localized communications. I don't want those cruisers broadcasting our location when we leave this airfield."
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"Already done, boss," Cruz replied, tapping his tablet once. "Their digital radios are screaming white noise right now."
Blake slung his bag tightly over his shoulder and looked at the three men who had fought alongside him across three continents. "Let's go see my wife."
