Chapter 2 - The Name on the Report
"Where did he get that?" I asked.
Sloane's answer was too quick. "Some training trash."
But the strip had three black stitches at one end. Eli had sewn those stitches himself after Atlas chewed through a buckle in Afghanistan. I had watched him do it beneath a flashlight while he complained about military-grade equipment that couldn't survive one determined dog.
"It belongs to the Kharif harness," I said.
"There is no Kharif harness," Sloane replied. "All contaminated equipment was destroyed."
He had just told me something I hadn't asked.
Atlas strained against the new handler's leash, whining until I turned and held his gaze.
"It's okay," I lied.
Inside, Rourke stood by a window while a young officer emptied my pockets. My grandmother's old silver whistle. A phone with a cracked screen.
"You drove four hours because of a text?" Rourke asked.
"Wouldn't you?"
He didn't answer. A year ago he had signed the preliminary report calling me careless. "Why was Atlas being put down?" I asked.
Rourke studied the floor. "Two aggression incidents. Neither involved a bite. The command decided he wasn't fit for reassignment."
"The command. Meaning Sloane."
"Meaning the process."
"Don't hide behind that word. He protected six soldiers who couldn't see the road ahead of them. He found explosives, held under fire, and came back without his best friend. Now he flinches at engines, so your process kills him?"
Rourke winced. "You don't know the entire situation."
"Then tell me."
The door opened. Sloane stepped in carrying a folder with my name across the front. "Ms. Hayes, sign a statement saying you entered illegally and provoked the dog, and we'll drop the trespass charge."
"And Atlas?"
"That decision is final."
I stared at the folder. "You always did need somebody else to take the blame."
He lowered his voice. "You made a routing decision in a combat zone. People died because of it."
"I never sent that order."
"Your credentials did."
"My radio was dead. Ask the technician who inspected it."
Something changed in Sloane's face. Not surprise. Recognition.
Rourke noticed too. "Which technician?"
"Specialist Nina Flores. She logged a power failure at 0210, four minutes before the convoy turned. Her statement disappeared from the report."
Sloane closed the folder. "That's enough."
He ordered Rourke outside and leaned across the table until I could smell expensive coffee on his breath.
"You should have stayed forgotten, Nora."
From the hallway came the metallic slam of a security door. Then Atlas began barking—three short barks, a pause, then one long one.
May you like
Our old signal.
Somebody was in trouble.
