Chapter 1 - The Weight of the Trident
My shift had just ended. My name tag was still in my pocket. My hair was flattened from eight hours under those fluorescent lights. My lower back ached from helping customers at the self-checkout lanes.
I'm Callie Mercer. Forty-four years old. I stock shelves in home goods. That's all anyone sees. They don't see three combat deployments. They don't see the desert dust that still clings to my memories. They definitely don't see the small TRIDENT tattoo hidden beneath my cheap Timex watch.
When I reached my beat-up 2007 Honda Civic, a man was already leaning against the driver's door. The faded bumper sticker—"My Kid Is an Honor Student"—wasn't even mine. I bought the car used.
"That your ride?" he asked, chewing something. Three more drifted closer. Late twenties. Full of swagger.
"I'm just trying to go home," I said.
"We're bored," the biggest one said. "Maybe you could keep us entertained."
"I really can't."
Before I consciously thought, my body reacted. My posture straightened. Every muscle awakened with terrifying familiarity. I hadn't felt that instinct since walking point in the desert.
"Please," I whispered. "Please don't do this."
I wasn't begging them to spare me. I was begging them not to make me become her again.
The biggest man grabbed for my arm. My hand slipped beneath his elbow and found the exposed nerve bundle. I didn't strike; I redirected. His arm bent the wrong way. The sickening crack echoed across the parking lot. Another attacker rushed me; I dropped low, my elbow driving into his floating ribs.
Crunch. He collapsed, gasping.
The remaining two froze. Headlights flooded the lot. A county sheriff’s cruiser rolled to a stop. An older deputy stepped out. He wasn't looking at the injured men. His eyes were fixed on my wrist, where my watch had slid back to expose the Trident.
"Mercer?"
May you like
The voice stopped me cold. "Callie... is that really you? DEVGRU? Red Squadron?"
I closed my eyes. Six years of hiding ended in a Walmart parking lot.
