Chapter 14 - Velocity and Vengeance
The unmarked black Dodge Charger tore through the main gate of Camp Pendleton, its supercharged engine screaming as Mia threw the vehicle across four lanes of Interstate 5 South. The speedometer needle swung past ninety, then one hundred and ten, vibrating the steering column beneath her white-knuckled grip.
Beside her, Dylan braced his boots against the floorboard, one hand gripping the grab handle, his eyes wide as traffic blurred into streaks of grey asphalt and coastal fog.
"Mia, talk to me!" Dylan shouted over the roar of the engine. "Who the hell is Al-Zilal? What does some terrorist broker have to do with Mom?"
"In 2019, Dad’s helicopter wasn’t brought down by a stray rocket in the Kunar Valley," Mia replied, her voice dangerously calm, honed to a razor edge by years in operational black zones. "It was an orchestrated ambush. A regional weapons trafficker operating under the moniker Al-Zilal bought stolen American military ordnance—surface-to-air tracking suites—and waited along their flight path. Dad’s entire team was wiped out."
Dylan felt the air leave his lungs like a physical blow. "Miller... Staff Sergeant Miller was selling to the men who killed Dad?"
"Miller was the supply tap," Mia said, cutting around a commercial semi-truck with millimeters to spare. "He thought he was just moving untraceable rifles and optics to high-paying cartel couriers through Tijuana. He was an arrogant pawn. But our fusion center intercepted the chatter fifteen minutes ago. Miller’s primary buyer wasn’t a cartel lieutenant. It’s an advance cell for Al-Zilal’s network. And when the base went into lockdown and Miller got pinched, the buyer’s cleanup crew was immediately dispatched."
"Why Mom’s house?" Dylan demanded, his throat tight with rising panic. "She’s a retired school administrator! She doesn’t know anything about stolen armory manifests!"
"Dad didn’t just die that day, Dylan. Before he deployed on his final tour, he suspected someone inside 1st Marine Division was funneling weapons through commercial freight channels in San Diego. He kept a private logbook—encrypted hard drives, names, serial numbers. He told Mom it was personal financial records and locked it in the floor safe beneath the workbench in the garage." Mia glanced down at her wrist chronometer. "The syndicate knows Miller is talking. If they get their hands on Dad’s original files before NCIS processes Miller’s phone, they can scrub their senior leadership and vanish. And they won’t leave witnesses."
Dylan’s hands began to shake, but this time, the tremor wasn’t born of fear. It was raw, unadulterated fury. The hollow bravado he had worn like armor around his squad mates shattered completely, replaced by the primal instinct of a son and a brother.
He reached down to the center console, checking the retention strap on his issued sidearm. "How far?"
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"Four miles," Mia said, slamming her foot down. "Get your head in the fight, Corporal. We aren't Marine and civilian today. We’re Vance's kids. And no one touches our mother."
***
