Chapter 4
The midnight hours at Camp Alpha brought a deceptive peace. The desert wind cooled rapidly, whistling softly through the corrugated tin roofs of the enlisted barracks. Inside the women's quarters, Maeve lay awake on her narrow cot, staring up at the dark rafters. Sleep was a rare and fragile commodity, usually guarded by nightmares of past deployments and the unresolved memories of the unit she had left behind. Her tactical vest and boots were neatly arranged beside the bed, ready for immediate deployment. She could hear the faint, rhythmic breathing of her bunkmates, but her heightened senses picked up something else—a faint scrape of rubber-soled boots on the gravel outside the window.
Maeve didn't turn on a light. She slipped silently out of bed, her bare feet making no sound against the wooden floorboards. Moving with practiced stealth, she eased herself to the edge of the window frame and peered out into the shadowed alleyway between the buildings. Two figures were lingering near the side entrance, their faces obscured by the darkness of their hooded jackets. Even without seeing their features, Maeve recognized the distinct, lurching gait of one of Marcus Vance's closest allies, Corporal Derek Miller. Miller and another soldier were whispering urgently while holding a heavy canvas duffel bag.
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Quietly, Maeve cracked the window a fraction of an inch to catch the murmur of their voices. "...if we plant it in her locker, command has to open an investigation," Miller hissed, his voice trembling with a mixture of malice and nervous energy. "The captain will have to strip her rank, and Vance gets his payback without lifting a finger." The other soldier grunted in agreement, reaching for the latch of the side door that led directly into the women's barracks. Maeve’s jaw tightened. They weren't just looking for a rematch; they were trying to frame her for contraband, using the institutional machinery of the military against her.
Anger flared in her chest, but she stamped it down immediately. Emotion was a tactical vulnerability. She needed proof, or she needed to catch them red-handed in a way that left no room for administrative cover-ups. Slipping on her trousers and pulling an olive-green t-shirt over her head, Maeve laced her boots in the dark. She didn't wake the others. This was her battle to fight. As the muffled click of the side door latch echoed through the hallway, Maeve melted into the shadows of the corridor, becoming a ghost waiting for her targets to step directly into her trap.
