“Stop running around like a wet nurse!” Rachel yelled from upstairs. “Kids today are too soft!”
Time stopped. I looked down at my daughter. Her lips were turning blue. The Soldier woke up.
I didn’t scream back. I didn’t waste a single calorie on anger. I scooped Mia up, bypassed the living room entirely, and drove to the ER with the cold, calculated aggression of an extraction driver in a war zone.
Once the doctors ripped her from my arms to administer oxygen, I stood in the waiting room, my rage feeling like ice in my veins. I pulled my encrypted military satellite phone from my pocket.
I didn’t call 911. I didn’t call my wife.
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I dialed the direct line to the Joint Special Operations Command Center.
No photo description available.
The line connected on the second ring.
“Command center.”
“This is Colonel Sterling,” I said, my voice flat. “Priority black. Initiate domestic containment protocol on my residence. Civilian threat on site. Nonlethal engagement authorized. Target is Rachel Mercer. Lock the perimeter. Full recording package. I want local law enforcement patched in only after my team secures the scene.”
There was no pause, no surprise, no question.
“Identity confirmed. Protocol accepted. Estimated arrival nine minutes. Child status?”
“Critical but stable in ER. Oxygen treatment underway.”
“Understood, Colonel. Would you like family services liaison engaged?”
“Yes.”
“Done.”
The line went dead.
