Chapter 8 - The Warning
Briggs called it a joke.
Of course he did.
Hayes removed him from the immediate area for fifteen minutes and questioned Reed separately.
But Reed panicked.
I stared at him.
Now his hands were shaking.
Hayes did not press him in public.
Neither did I.
Fear changes the shape of memory when people believe honesty will cost them something.
My semifinal started at 1400.
Across the mat stood Lieutenant Aaron Cole, a former collegiate wrestler who looked apologetic before the whistle even blew.
“Then let’s make it quick.”
He smiled.
The match lasted three minutes.
Cole took me down once.
I escaped.
He nearly caught my arm.
I rolled.
We traded position twice.
The crowd stood.
Not everybody.
But enough.
As Cole helped me up, he whispered, “Briggs is furious.”
I looked across the field.
He was.
His own semifinal came next.
His opponent, Sergeant First Class Peter Lawson, was experienced, disciplined, and strong enough to make Briggs work.
For two minutes, Briggs could not control him.
Then frustration took over.
He drove Lawson into the edge boundary after the official called break.
Lawson went down awkwardly.
The referee shouted.
Briggs lifted both hands.
“What? Momentum.”
The match resumed.
Thirty seconds later, Briggs won.
He pointed at me.
The crowd roared.
I felt nothing.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Just clarity.
The final was set.
As medics checked my ribs, Commander Hayes crouched beside me.
“Last chance.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
Before he could answer, one of the civilian Pentagon observers approached.
A woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair and a badge clipped inside her jacket.
“Petty Officer Mitchell?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
My stomach tightened.
Hayes stood.
The woman lowered her voice.
“Captain Lena Ward. Inspector General liaison.”
Briggs was watching us from across the field.
Ward noticed.
“He thinks this is a tournament,” she said.
May you like
Then she looked back at me.
“It stopped being one yesterday.”
