"Was me." I set the photo aside. "The man in that picture died in the sand."
Next come the dog tags—three sets, their metal dulled with age and grief. I let them pool in my palm, the chains tangling like the memories they represent.
"Martinez. Chen. Rodriguez." The names catch in my throat. "They trusted me to bring them home."
Sloane's hand covers mine, warm against the cold metal. She doesn't offer empty comfort or hollow reassurance.
Just touch. Just presence.
"I kept these to remember why we fought," I explain. "Why wereallyfought. Not for orders or command, but for people."
Finally, I reach the notebook. Small, leather-bound, pages warped from desert sweat and midnight confessions. My mission log—the real one, not the sanitized version submitted to command.
"Everything that happened is in here," I say quietly. "Everything they tried to bury. Everything they'll kill to keep quiet."
Sloane's breath catches, but she doesn't reach for it. Instead, she asks, "Why keep it?"
"Because someone needs to remember the truth." I trace the worn cover. "Even if we can't tell it."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with understanding.
This isn't just about objects in a box. It's about the weight of survival, the cost of carrying on when others don't.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For showing me."
I look at her—really look at her. The woman who crashed through my defenses with her own ghosts, her own battles. Who understands the price of truth because she's paid it too.
"I've never..." I start, then swallow hard. "No one else has seen these."
Her eyes soften. "I know."
And she does. That's what terrifies me. That's what saves me.
Before I can say more, my comm unit crackles to life.
"Contact. East ridge."Knox's voice cuts through the moment."Not a target. Object dump. Coordinates sent. We're moving out."
We're on our feet instantly, muscle memory taking over.
I secure the box, lock it, slide it back under the bed. The past goes back in its cage.
We move fast through the trees, breath clouding in the cold air. The team's already assembled when we arrive—Caleb scanning the treeline, Eli checking equipment, Ryker and Knox securing the perimeter.
Then I see it.
Half-buried in fresh snow, a splash of red that doesn't belong.
Sloane drops to her knees beside it, brushing away snow with trembling fingers. My heart stops as she lifts the small jacket—damp, still carrying body heat.
The tag confirms my worst fear:
Property of: Lucia Calderón
Fuck.
29
LOGAN
