She had simply stopped protecting them from the consequences of their own actions.
She slowly went upstairs and packed her things quietly.
Two heavy coats.
A few maternity clothes.
Her secure laptop.
Daniel’s dog tags.
And the old black notebook containing all the technical notes he had written before he died.
The rest no longer seemed truly important.
The garage smelled of damp concrete, stale gasoline, and dust trapped inside for years.
Someone had set up an old folding bed against the back wall, next to some mold-covered plastic boxes.
A single thin blanket lay on it.
No heating.
No bathroom.
No dignity.
Emily sat up slowly on the bed, suppressing a grimace, as her aching back hit the cold metal.
The baby suddenly kicked hard under her ribs.
Like a silent reminder that she wasn’t entirely alone in the darkness.
Then her encrypted phone vibrated sharply on the blanket.
TRANSFER COMPLETED.
PROJECT ORION AUTHORIZED.
DEFENSE CONTRACT VALIDATED.
T
