Michael sank back into his leather chair, the fight completely drained from him.

“You don’t know what she’s capable of, Emerson,” he whispered, looking at the floor. “She controls everything.”

“She doesn’t control this office,” I said, standing firm beside the desk. “And she doesn’t control the Marine Corps.”

The door behind us opened wider, and the heavy soles of service boots sounded in the corridor.

Two Navy Master-at-Arms officers entered, their black utility belts rigging with gear, handcuffs, and sidearms.

Behind them stood General Drummond, his dress blues immaculate and his chest covered in ribbons.

His presence filled the small room, bringing the cold authority of the Pentagon with him.

“Lieutenant Colonel Rogers,” General Drummond said, nodding briefly to me.

“General,” I said, coming to attention.

Drummond looked at Michael, who remained slumped in his chair, unable to meet the general’s eyes.

“Commander Rogers,” General Drummond said, his voice echoing in the small space. “By order of the Regional Commander, you are being relieved of your duties effective immediately.”

Michael did not move.

“Your security clearance is suspended, and you are placed under military arrest pending a formal inquiry,” Drummond continued.