Chapter 6 - THE SETUP
he ocean wind off the Pacific was relentless, carrying a freezing mist that shrouded the southern
edge of Naval Station Coronado.
At 2200 hours, I walked toward the abandoned supply pier. I wore no tactical gear, only my
standard working uniform, making myself look like an easy target. But beneath my jacket, a highfrequency tracking device pulsed quietly, transmitting my exact coordinates and audio feed to
Lieutenant Vance and Admiral Vale’s tactical team.
The pier was a graveyard of rusted cranes and empty shipping containers. The sound of the waves
crashing against the wooden pilings was deafening.
As I reached the end of the pier, a shadow stepped out from behind a stack of shipping containers.
It was Commander Thomas Holt, flanked by Petty Officer Grant Mercer. Mercer’s knuckles were taped,
his face twisted in a silent, murderous snarl.
“You should have taken the hint yesterday, Commander Ward,“ Holt said, his voice dripping with
malice. “A smart officer would have accepted the ’accident’ report, signed off on a clean audit, and
gone back to Washington.“
“A smart officer doesn’t let criminals run her Navy,“ I replied, my voice steady despite the freezing
wind. “Where is your contact, Holt? Or did Vice Admiral Sterling decide you weren’t worth saving?“
Holt’s eyes widened in shock at the mention of Sterling’s name. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?
You think a few database logs are going to bring down a future CNO? You’re an investigator, Ward.
You know how the system works. People like you get buried. People like us get promoted.“
“Is that what Sterling promised you?“ I mocked, taking a slow step forward. “A promotion? Or did
he just promise not to let you rot in a military prison for embezzlement?“
“Shut her up,“ Holt hissed, turning to Mercer.
Mercer grinned, stepping forward and cracking his neck. “This time, there are no cameras,
Lieutenant Commander. And no Admiral to save you.“
“Good,“ I whispered, sliding into a defensive stance. “I prefer it when there are no distractions.“
Mercer lunged, throwing a heavy, professional-grade punch aimed straight at my jaw. He expected
me to flinch, to fall, to cry out like the junior sailors he had bullied for years.
But I wasn’t a junior sailor. I was the Ghost of the Red Sea.
I slipped the punch effortlessly, my hand darting forward to strike his throat with a precise,
devastating palm heel. Mercer choked, stumbling back as the air was violently forced from his throat.
Before he could recover, I swept his leg, sending his massive body crashing onto the wooden deck of
the pier with a dull, heavy thud.
The Scars of Honor: Takedown at Coronado 12
Holt pulled a compact 9mm pistol from his jacket, his hand shaking violently. “Freeze! Don’t
move!“
I stood over Mercer, my eyes locked onto Holt’s trembling barrel. “You don’t have the stomach to
pull that trigger, Thomas. Because you know the moment you do, this becomes a federal capital
offense.“
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The Scars of Honor: Takedown at Coronado 13
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