They Arrested Her for Impersonating a SEAL — The Base Commander Went Pale Seeing Her Classified File
Chapter 3
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Torres' eyes widened slightly. She opened her mouth, then closed it again."You have the right to remain silent," Drake intoned, ratcheting the cuffs with more force than strictly necessary. "Anything you say can and will be used against you."The walk to the MP vehicle was a parade of humiliation: 43 witnesses, 43 phone cameras, countless social media streams broadcasting what looked like simple justice—another faker caught and dragged away.Reed followed them out, still talking, voice carrying across the parking lot. "You should see the real thing sometime—real SEALs. Maybe then you'd understand what you're pretending to be." He leaned against his truck, arms crossed, watching Drake load Willow into the backseat. "Takes Hell Week to earn that trident: 237 hours of the worst suffering the human body can endure. Hypothermia, sleep deprivation, people literally hallucinating from exhaustion. And you just bought it at what, Target?"Willow's jaw tightened fractionally. One of Reed's teammates, Chief Petty Officer Cyrus Wallace—though his nametag was obscured—whistled low."237 hours," he said it like someone checking an equation. "That's specific.""The Hell Week's not exactly classified information," Reed shot back, but there was a pause before he said it, just a heartbeat of doubt.The MP cruiser pulled away, leaving behind a bar full of witnesses already crafting their versions of the story for maximum virality.Chloe Winters stood in the doorway, cell phone in hand, staring at the space where her quiet coworker had been arrested. She pulled up Willow's contact. They'd exchanged numbers during the hiring process three months ago, but Willow Harper's social media presence was practically nonexistent: one Facebook profile with no posts, a LinkedIn that listed "bartender at various establishments," and absolutely nothing else. Which struck Chloe as odd, but then again, lots of people avoided social media.Derek Monroe was the last to leave, waiting until the crowd thinned before approaching the bar where Naomi Sullivan, the owner, was wiping down surfaces with aggressive vigor."That girl," he said quietly. "Now, how long she worked here?""Three months. Best employee I've got. Always on time, never calls in sick, doesn't complain." Naomi paused mid-wipe. "You know something, Derek?"Monroe studied the amber liquid in his glass, then drained it. "I know that people who can stay that calm under that kind of pressure usually learned it somewhere specific. And I know that Hell Week is 232 hours, not 237. Lieutenant Reed got his own qualification timeline wrong." He set down exact payment for his tab, including the usual tip. "I also know that sometimes the people who look weakest are the ones you should worry about most.""Should I be worried?""Not about her." Monroe pulled on his jacket, a worn leather number with Marine Corps insignia barely visible on the shoulder. "But those SEALs might want to start worrying. Good night, Naomi."The military police station at the main gate of Naval Amphibious Base Coronado was designed for processing, not comfort: concrete floors, fluorescent lights that flickered every 47 seconds, metal furniture bolted to the ground, and that particular institutional smell of disinfectant failing to mask decades of sweat and fear.