Two of Vance’s loyalists—thugs in uniform named Miller and Graves—had dragged me down the sterile corridors, my boots dragging along the linoleum. They strapped me into a heavy steel chair bolted to the floor, wrapping thick leather restraints around my wrists and ankles.
Through it all, the smile never left my face.
The room was lit by a single, harsh fluorescent bulb that buzzed angrily overhead. I sat there alone for twenty minutes, listening to the hum of the power grid, feeling the cold air conditioning dry the blood on my face. The right side of my jaw felt stiff, unyielding.
Finally, the heavy iron door clanged open, and Major Vance stepped in. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He held a bloody rag in one hand and a heavy, steel-toed wrench in the other. He locked the door behind him with a resounding thud.
"I’m going to ask you once, Specialist Silas," Vance said, his voice dangerously calm. He dragged a metal stool across the floor and sat down opposite me. "What the hell is in your face?"
I tilted my head, letting the harsh light catch the jagged tear in my cheek. Beneath the flap of torn skin and muscle, there was no white bone, no red marrow.
There was gleaming, polished titanium. Intricate, microscopic wiring pulsing with a faint blue light. A subdermal kinetic relay.
"It's a jaw," I said simply. "Medical grade. Top of the line. Courtesy of the United States Armed Forces."
"Don't play games with me," Vance leaned forward, tapping the wrench against his palm. "I saw the light. Bone doesn't blink, Silas. What is it? A tracker? A wire?"
"Both," I said, my smile widening. "And neither."
Vance’s face darkened. He stood up and paced the small room, like a caged tiger. "I knew there was something off about you since you transferred here. You kept digging into the supply logs. You kept asking questions about the missing munitions. You thought you could build a case against me."
"I didn't have to build a case, Major," I replied, the metallic plating in my jaw shifting slightly as I spoke. "The case was already built. The missing crates of AT-4 rocket launchers. The ghost shipments of C4 explosives. You’ve been selling standard-issue ordinance to the local insurgency for the last eighteen months, padding your offshore accounts while our own boys get blown up on patrol."
Vance stopped pacing. He looked at me, a cold, calculating look in his eyes. "You have no proof. All the digital logs were scrubbed. The physical manifests were burned in the armory fire last month. You have nothing but a conspiracy theory, boy."
"I had nothing," I corrected him. "Until about thirty minutes ago."
Vance stepped closer, raising the wrench. "Explain. Now."
"When I was caught in that IED blast two years ago in Kandahar, I lost half my face," I said calmly, ignoring the weapon hovering inches from my skull. "The military rebuilt me. But they didn't just give me a new jaw. Internal Affairs approached me. They knew there was a leak in this sector. They knew someone high up was facilitating the arms trade. They just didn't know how they were doing the digital transfers."