Chapter 4 - The Unspoken Past
The tension in the bar didn't dissipate; it merely shifted shape, transforming from casual hostility into a heavy, suffocating pressure. Vance motioned sharply to the bartender, who immediately slid a fresh, top-shelf bottle of bourbon across the counter without needing to be asked.
"Pour the Colonel a proper drink, Frank," Vance ordered, glaring at the old man behind the taps.
Frank the bartender offered a dry, knowing smirk as he swapped my cheap glass for a heavy tumbler filled with twenty-year-old amber liquid. "My apologies, Colonel. The new arrivals always think they own the place until the wolves show up."
"Accepted, Frank," I said, taking a slow sip. The burn was smooth this time, carrying notes of oak, vanilla, and a complex bite that reminded me of dusty nights in the sandbox.
Miller and his friend finally managed to shuffle sideways, melting back into the shadows of a far booth like scolded dogs. None of their buddies made room for them; in fact, the men on either side of them actively pushed their chairs away to create a wide berth of isolation. In a military bar, incompetence was contagious, and nobody wanted to catch it.
Vance stepped closer to the bar, leaning his forearms against the wood. His eyes dropped momentarily to my left shoulder, where a faint, jagged scar peeked out from beneath the collar of my charcoal jacket—a permanent souvenir from an IED blast outside Fallujah twelve years ago.
"Word down at headquarters was that you were taking a sabbatical, ma'am," Vance said softly, keeping his voice beneath the hum of the jukebox. "They said Lieutenant Colonel Ellison was done with line units. Desk job in the Pentagon, maybe teaching at the War College."
"The Pentagon needed someone to push paper," I replied, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. "I needed someone to give me a real challenge. I heard the 3rd Armored was falling apart at the seams. Looked like a rumor worth investigating."
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Vance let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "It’s not a rumor, Colonel. Morale’s in the toilet, maintenance rates are failing inspection, and half the battalion commanders treat the post like a country club. The brass down in DC figured you’d either fix it or break trying."
"I don't break, Sergeant Major," I said, meeting his gaze dead-on. "I reshape."
