I tapped the screen with my left thumb while keeping the gun trained on my father with my right.

The file opened.

It was an active-duty transfer manifest scheduled for tomorrow morning at 0500 hours.

My name was at the top of the list.

The destination was a remote training outpost in the high desert, but the transport vehicle listed was a decommissioned C-130 that had been flagged for structural issues three months ago.

A transport flight that was never meant to land.

I stared at the screen, the cold reality of the paper in my hand settling into my bones.

“Natalie?” Madison asked, noticing my expression. “What is it?”

My father watched me, his face completely devoid of emotion.

The door behind him rattled again as the wind howled through the trees outside.

“It is a transfer,” I said, my voice flat.

I did not lower the Beretta.

My father did not blink.

“You should have stayed in Georgia, Natalie,” he said.

Madison stepped closer to my side, her boots squeaking on the wet hardwood.

“What transfer?” she asked, her voice shaking. “Natalie, what is on your phone?”