Page 129 of Aviatrix

“No,” Gary replies, lips twitching. “Really. You’ll be landing at a helipad near Fort Myer.”

“The one next to the cemetery?” I ask.

“Yep.” Scooter smirks.

“What happened to the motorcade?” I groan.

But then I hear it. The low, steady hum of a helicopter approaching from the horizon.

Despite everything I know about Lark, seeing him fly a helicopter is something I didn’t expect.

“What in the world?” I shout into the headset when I climb in and drop into the seat beside Amber.

“I trained on helicopters back in my Special Tactics days,” Lark replies, already lifting us off the ground.

“You must be one of the few who can do both,” I say, glancing at Amber. She swipes a tear from her cheek, trying to be brave.

I reach for her hand, and she immediately squeezes mine back. A small gesture, but I hope she feels even a sliver safer knowing we’re doing everything we can to stop a massacre.

“Why do you think I was on that special ops team?” Lark offers, making small talk as we bank north.

“Back when you were in Kyrgyzstan?” I ask, needing the distraction.

He glances back at me. “How do you know about that?”

“Eli,” I reply.

“Should’ve known,” Lark mutters into the mic as we make a hard turn.

“You never told me.”

“I should have,” he says quietly.

“There were a lot of things you should have told me,” I say to him.

He doesn’t respond. Maybe he can’t. Maybe there’s nothing left to say.

I turn away, letting the silence settle between us. Amber’s hand remains tucked in mine, steady but trembling. I fix my eyes on the sky, a firearm strapped to my inner thigh, and try to slow my breathing.

There’s no telling what’s waiting for us when we arrive, but one thing is certain. I’m not going down without a fight.

Lark lands us, and a wall of flashing lights and shouting reporters hits like a wave. I climb out first, careful not to flash the gun strapped to my thigh. Then, I help Amber down, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as we crouch low and circle around the helicopter. Lark joins us in a black suit, placing his body between us and the media storm.

“Colonel Jones, how are you doing today?”

“Will you comment on the attack?”

“What’s your favorite childhood memory of President Jones?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps moving forward, shielding us from the frenzy.

At the funeral site—Arlington Cemetery’s Amphitheater—I finally take a breath long enough to smooth my dress, then reach for Amber’s hand. The engagement ring sparkles on my finger, another part of the illusion.

The amphitheater is packed full. So many people seated around the circular white columns and rows. Reporters. News crews. Members of congress. Supreme court justices. Familiar faces. Some not.

It’s overwhelming how many lives are being put at risk just to keep one man’s ego intact.

There will be photos tomorrow. And maybe even some video. I can barely stomach the thought of it.