Chapter 1The Colonel's Price

My wife, the Colonel, believed our son needed to be a man. So, against my every objection, she had him deployed to a peacekeeping mission in the Middle East.

“I was on the front lines when I was just a teenager,” she’d scoffed. “Look at him. Does he even look like a man to you?”

Our son came back with the Medal of Honor. The price was his life.

I went to find her, carrying the box with his ashes. But when I arrived, I saw her latest post online: a photo of her first love, Christopher, and his daughter, Cece.

The caption read: [A living Medal of Honor recipient. A credit to our guidance.]

In the photo, Cece was wearing the medal that belonged to my son. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just filed a report against my wife with the military court.

* * *

Our son’s remains fit into a small, flag-draped box. When Major General Thorne handed it to me, her expression was one of pure compassion.

“I’m so sorry, Noah,” she said, her voice heavy. “By the time we got there, all that was left were… fragments.”

The only other thing they recovered was his blood-soaked uniform. The fabric was shredded, a canvas of bullet holes and knife slashes.

I opened the box just a crack before slamming it shut. The acrid smell of old blood assaulted my senses. I clutched the box and the uniform to my chest, fell to my knees, and wept.

His last call echoed in my mind, a phantom playing on a loop.

“Dad, it hurts… they cut a hole in my stomach… If I don’t talk, they’re going to cut my throat next. Dad… I’m scared. Their knife is rusty. It’ll take a few tries before I die… But I can’t talk. If I talk, my brothers will die… Dad, it’s okay if no one else remembers me, but you’ll remember me, right? Please? They’re coming! Dad! DAD! AHHH!”

His final, agonizing scream was seared into my memory. The torture lasted ten minutes, but he never uttered a single word of intel. The only thing he kept repeating was, “Dad, save me!”

I had scrambled for help, frantically calling my wife, Colonel Evelyn Vance. She never answered.

Long after our son was dead, a text from her finally came through.

[Christopher’s dealing with something. I don’t have time for your childish jealousy.]

Major General Thorne helped me to my feet, her eyes full of apology. “I’m sorry I was late.”

I shook my head. “No. This wasn’t your mission. I know you did everything you could.”

I turned to leave, holding the box and the uniform, but a hand fell on my shoulder.

Diana Thorne, my childhood friend, looked at me, her expression a mixture of emotions I couldn’t decipher. “Let me give you a ride back.”

I shook my head again. “It’s okay, I can manage. Thank you for bringing Aaron home to me. I’m already so grateful.”

I gave her a deep, formal bow and walked away. Her hand hung in the air for a moment before she let it fall.