Chapter 4 - The Aftermath at the Mercer House
Back inside the house, the dining room was finally empty of guests, but the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a combat knife.
Logan stood by the sideboard, pouring himself a very large bourbon, his hand still shaking slightly.
Arthur walked into the room, unbuttoning his collar. He looked at his youngest son for a long, silent moment before speaking.
“Dad, before you say anything—” Logan started defensively, his voice rising. “How was I supposed to know? She wears a gray sweater! She drives a Honda Civic! She told everyone she did logistics!”
“Logistics, Logan?” Arthur cut him off, his voice dangerously calm. “A retired Command Master Chief—a man who spent thirty years on nuclear submarines and carrier decks—looked your wife’s sister-in-law in the eye and treated her like royalty. He called her Valkyrie.”
“It was probably just some stupid nickname from a desk exercise,” Logan muttered, though his own voice lacked any conviction.
“Did you see his face?” Arthur asked, stepping closer to his son. “Did you see the way he looked at her? Men like Gabriel Torres don’t give that kind of respect to people who order paperclips, Logan. They give it to people who carry lives in their hands.”
Logan slammed his glass down onto the sideboard, liquor sloshing over the rim. “She’s just an analyst, Dad! I outrank her on paper! I’m a surface warfare lieutenant in an active combat-ready squadron!”
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“On paper, yes,” Arthur said quietly, turning toward the hallway. “But out there, in the real world—the world your brother and your sister-in-law actually operate in—paper doesn't mean a damn thing.”
He left Logan standing alone in the dim dining room, staring down at his gold lieutenant bars as if they had suddenly grown heavy and cold.
