Chapter 3 - THE MIDNIGHT VOICEMAIL FROM THE EDGE
The sun had barely begun to streak the winter sky with pale, bruised pinks and grays when my cell phone buzzed violently on the bedside table.
It was 6:15 AM on Boxing Day.
I reached blindly for the screen, seeing Lauren’s name flashing across the display.
Thinking she was calling to either double-down on her arrogant defense or throw a tantrum about being kicked out of dinner, I hit accept and put it on speaker so James—who lay beside me, staring wide-awake at the ceiling—could hear every word.
Lauren’s voice didn't sound drunk, nor did it sound angry.
It sounded terrified.
Her breath was coming in ragged, hyperventilating gasps, as if she had been running through the snow in the middle of the night.
“Elena? Oh god, please tell me you're listening to me,” Lauren choked out, her voice trembling violently. “You need to get out of that house right now. Pack a bag. Take the baby and run.”
I sat up straight in bed, trading a sharp, confused glance with James, whose eyes had locked onto the phone speaker with laser focus.
“Lauren? What are you talking about?” I demanded into the receiver. “You slapped my baby, and now you’re calling me with cryptic nonsense at dawn? Where are you?”
“You have no idea what your husband brought home with him,” Lauren sobbed, a hysterical edge creeping into her tone. “He’s not who you think he is, Elena. He didn't just fight insurgents over there. They’re looking for him. They’re looking for all of us because of what happened on that final patrol. He brought a war back to our front door, and—click.”
The line went dead with a sharp, electronic beep.
I stared at the screen in absolute disbelief.
Before I could process the terrifying implications of her words, James rolled out of bed with fluid, terrifying speed.
He didn't panic.
He didn't yell.
Instead, he went completely, unnervingly still—the exact posture he would assume right before stepping into an active ambush zone.
His face drained of all color, his lips pressed into a hard white line.
“She shouldn't have said that,” James whispered, more to himself than to me, his voice carrying a dark, chilling finality that sent a shiver straight down my spine.
“James, what does she know?” I demanded, grabbing his forearm, my fingernails digging into his tactical shirt. “What did you do in Kandahar? Why is Lauren calling us terrified after threatening you last night?”
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Before James could formulate a reply, his military-issued satellite smartphone buzzed loudly from the kitchen counter downstairs—a harsh, secure ringtone that meant only one thing: command was calling.
James pulled away from my grip without a word, strode out of the bedroom, and picked up the call, leaving me alone in the dim morning light with a sister who had just warned me for my life and a husband who was hiding a war in his bones.
