Chapter 11
The military transport van rumbled smoothly down the asphalt highway, its heavy diesel engine humming a steady, reliable rhythm. Inside the cab, Sergeant Briggs gripped the steering wheel with practiced ease, while Elena sat in the passenger seat, resting her injured right hand carefully on her lap. The white bandage gleamed under the dashboard lights, a stark reminder of the detour they had endured in Oak Creek.
"How's the hand holding up, Major?" Briggs asked, glancing sideways at her without taking his eyes off the road.
"It throbs when I shift gears, which is why I'm letting you drive," Elena replied with a dry, knowing smile. "Other than that, it's just administrative paperwork waiting to happen."
"Heard about the Miller Logistics audit," Briggs continued, shaking his head slightly. "Word travels fast through the regional supply network. Apparently, the IRS and the Pentagon’s inspector general descended on their corporate offices about twenty minutes after we left the precinct. They're seizing every server and maintenance log from the past five years."
Elena looked out the window at the passing autumn trees, their leaves flashing brilliant shades of amber and gold against the gray afternoon sky. "It wasn't about the eggs, Briggs. You know that, right?"
"Of course not," Briggs said quietly. "Guys like that spend their whole lives treating everyone else like obstacles on their personal highway. Sooner or later, they cross the wrong person. Today, they happened to cross someone who didn't back down."
Elena touched the edge of her bandage. The physical pain had settled into a dull, manageable ache, but the emotional clarity remained sharp. For years, she had carried supplies across hostile territories where danger came in the form of roadside explosives and sniper fire. Dealing with a spoiled corporate heir in a sleepy rural town felt absurd by comparison, yet the fundamental principle remained identical: if you let bullies dictate the terms of engagement, the whole system collapses.
"My uncle thinks I should take three days of administrative leave to let the knuckle heal properly," Elena noted, a hint of defiance in her tone.
"And what did you tell him?" Briggs asked, grinning.
"I told him the supply convoy doesn't take coffee breaks because of a sprained knuckle."
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Briggs laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the cab. "That’s my major. We’re forty miles out from the regional logistics depot. The receiving officer is Colonel Henderson, and he’s expecting the medical shipment by sixteen hundred hours sharp."
***
