Chapter 6 - The Lie They Paid to Keep Alive|
The message didn't frighten me because it threatened my life.
I'd received death threats before.
Some had come from people carrying rifles.
Others had come from people wearing uniforms.
What frightened me was the photograph.
The hospital compound in Syria had been secured.
The image had never appeared in the public incident report.
And the only reason it existed was that a military photographer had documented our injuries after the rescue.
I handed the phone to Lieutenant Colonel Bennett.
She examined the image without touching the screen.
"Do you recognize the sender?"
"No."
"Was this photograph ever released publicly?"
"Not that I know of."
She photographed the message for the investigation and asked me to preserve the original.
Then she looked at Lena.
"I need you both to avoid discussing this with club members until we've documented it."
I nodded.
But I already knew silence would be impossible.
By eight that morning, the landing video was everywhere.
Someone had filmed Ghost Two-Four breaking through the storm.
Someone else had filmed Aaron embracing me on the runway.
And a third person had posted a video of Carter lying among the shattered remains of Grant's coffee table.
The captions were ridiculous.
MYSTERY WOMAN SAVES FIGHTER PILOT.
BILLIONAIRE HUMILIATED BY FEMALE MECHANIC.
AIR FORCE HERO EXPOSES PRIVATE CLUB'S BIGGEST LIE.
I hated every one of them.
Not because they were entirely wrong.
Because they turned the worst night of Aaron's life into entertainment.
And they made my past public property.
By noon, reporters were calling the maintenance office.
Some wanted interviews.
Some wanted photographs of my medals.
One wanted to know whether I had actually killed enemy soldiers.
I hung up on that one.
Then a national television segment appeared with a statement from Grant's representatives.
It described me as a former military member with a complicated medical history.
It questioned whether my participation in the emergency had been appropriate.
It said Carter Hayes was reviewing his legal options.
And it suggested that the club had been subjected to a dangerous breach of safety procedures.
I watched the segment twice.
Then I turned off the television.
Lena was furious.
"He's trying to make you look unstable."
"Yes."
"After you helped save somebody's life!"
"That's usually when powerful people get nervous."
She paced across the office.
"We need to tell the truth."
"We do."
"Then why are you so calm?"
I looked at her.
"Because I know what happens when you let anger choose your next move."
She stopped pacing.
I hadn't always known that.
The first year after Syria, anger was almost the only thing I could feel.
Anger at the missile crew.
Anger at the doctors.
Anger at my own body for flinching whenever somebody slammed a door.
And anger at the officers who spoke about me as though I were a broken machine that could be quietly stored away.
Colonel Victor Kessler had been one of those officers.
He had served as a senior operations liaison during my final deployment.
He was polished, respected, and famous for delivering successful briefings to commanders who rarely saw the consequences on the ground.
After my aircraft was shot down, he became one of the people responsible for reviewing the mission.
I remembered him visiting my hospital room.
He had stood beside my bed, immaculate in his uniform.
His medals shone beneath the fluorescent lights.
"Major Ward," he had said.
"Your actions were courageous, but there are sensitive operational questions surrounding this incident."
I had been a captain during the mission and had received my promotion while recovering.
I remembered staring at the promotion insignia resting beside my hospital bed.
It had felt like a reward for something I wanted desperately to forget.
Kessler had leaned closer.
"Your recovery must come first."
"The Air Force will determine what information can be released."
Then he had lowered his voice.
"Don't make your future harder by asking questions that don't concern you."
At the time, I had been too exhausted to argue.
I believed he was protecting an investigation.
Later, I began to suspect he was protecting himself.
My phone rang again.
This time, the caller identification showed an unfamiliar Washington number.
I answered cautiously.
"Jessica Ward."
A man's voice replied.
"Ms. Ward, my name is Samuel Price."
"I'm an attorney representing Whitmore Defense."
I leaned back in my chair.
"That was quick."
"I'm calling to offer you an opportunity to resolve a potentially difficult situation."
"What situation?"
"The unwanted attention surrounding your military history."
I looked toward Lena.
She immediately recognized my expression.
"What exactly are you offering?" I asked.
"Financial compensation in exchange for a mutual confidentiality agreement."
I almost smiled.
"How much?"
"Two million dollars."
Lena's eyes widened.
I held up one finger.
Price continued.
"You would agree not to discuss Whitmore Defense, its personnel, or any historical military matters involving the company."
"And the landing?"
"That would also be covered."
I stared at the scar across the back of my hand.
Two million dollars.
Enough money to buy a quiet house somewhere far from airports.
Enough to stop worrying about medical bills.
Enough to make sure I never had to tolerate Grant Whitmore again.
For a brief moment, I imagined accepting.
Then I imagined Aaron's aircraft disappearing into the snow.
I imagined Noah Bell trapped inside our burning cockpit.
And I remembered how many people had suffered while men like Victor Kessler controlled the story.
"Mr. Price," I said.
"Tell your client that I won't sign."
His voice hardened.
"I strongly encourage you to reconsider."
"No."
"This could become extremely unpleasant."
"Then I suppose we'll both be uncomfortable."
I ended the call.
Lena stared at me.
"Two million dollars?"
"Apparently."
"Jess, that's more money than we'll make fixing airplanes in three lifetimes."
I nodded.
"Which means whatever they're trying to hide is worth considerably more."
A knock sounded at the doorway.
Nina Alvarez, the club's night bartender, entered holding a small external storage drive.
She was barely five feet tall and usually spoke so softly that customers leaned across the bar to hear her.
Today, her expression was determined.
"I heard about the television interview," she said.
I nodded.
Nina placed the drive on the desk.
"Then you need to see what Grant did before the fighter arrived."
Lena looked at the device.
"What is that?"
"A copy of the lounge security footage."
Nina swallowed.
"The cameras were supposed to be turned off during the private reception."
"But I was worried about being alone with Carter and his friends, so I kept the staff safety recording active."
My chest tightened.
"What did you catch?"
Nina looked directly at me.
"Grant knew there was going to be trouble tonight."
"How?"
"Because I heard him talking to someone on the phone an hour before the emergency."
She hesitated.
"Jess, he said the words, 'Mercer won't make it to Silverwood.'"
The room went silent.
May you like
Then Nina added the part that made my blood run cold.
"He called the other man Colonel."
