Clear these civilians back. Establish a hundred-yard perimeter. But the crowd held firm. Nia recognized faces from her father's veterans group, church members in their Sunday clothes, neighbors who'd known her since childhood. They stood in clusters on the sidewalk, phones raised, witnesses to every move.
Last warning, Miss Ellison, Kesler shouted. You're only making this harder on yourself. She noted how he said harder on yourself, not worse for yourself. The phrasing was wrong. Real federal agents had precise language protocols.
These men were play acting badly. Through her father's study window, she watched an officer direct units using mangled military terms. Alpha team. Establish defensive positions at Vector Point Charlie. It was gibberish.
The kind of talk someone would use after watching too many action movies. They're trying to make her look unstable. Judge Price's voice carried from next door. Getting all those news cameras here before they even show a warrant, making it a spectacle. The judge was right.
They wanted her to break, to run out screaming, to give them an excuse. Instead, Nia documented everything with military precision. Times, positions, statements, witnesses. The house grew stuffier as the summer sun beat down. Officers circled like wolves, testing windows, rattling doors.
Sheriff Larkin kept up his performance for the cameras. Now, folks, I know this looks concerning, but we have information about serious federal violations. Ms. Ellison just needs to cooperate. But he still showed no warrant, made no specific charges, presented no federal credentials. In the study, Nia pulled her father's old Bible from his desk drawer.
The leather was worn soft from years of handling. Her father had read from it every morning, right up until the day he died. If armed men ever come to the house in daylight, he told her once, "You use this number. " "Only in daylight, baby girl. That's when they think they're untouchable.
" She'd thought it was his PTSD talking. He'd grown paranoid near the end, haunted by something he wouldn't name. But he'd made her memorize where to look. Inside the cover, behind the dedication page, sweat dripped onto the thin pages as she opened it by lantern light. There, taped carefully to the inside cover, was a single sheet of paper.
On it, written in her father's precise hand, was a phone number she'd never seen before and three words: Pentagon, direct line. In the hushed darkness of her father's study, Nia's fingers trembled slightly as she dialed the number from the Bible. The lantern cast long shadows across the room while heavy boots scraped against her front porch. She could hear Kesler's rising frustration through the walls. Final warning, Miss Ellison.
Don't make us force entry. Nia pressed the phone to her ear, heart pounding. One ring, two rings. On the third, a crisp voice answered. Office of Special Operations Oversight.
My name is Nia Ellison, she said, keeping her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her body. I'm calling regarding service number 874194421. Master Sergeant James Ellison. A pause. Go ahead.
Nia took a deep breath and spoke the phrase her father had made her memorize. Daylight breach of protocol 7. The line went dead silent. When the voice returned, it was sharp with alertness. Status report.