Take that fake medal off before somebody realizes what you really are!”

The dawn that followed the siege brought forty federal cruisers, the FBI tactical squad, and the United States Marshal Service swarming over the Harris Industrial perimeter.

The four apprehended mercenaries didn't hold their silence for an hour. Faced with charges of attempted assassination of a federal witness and domestic terrorism, they gave up the entire money trail—tracing the payment directly to Marcus Vance’s private offshore account in Grand Cayman.

By noon, the drama reached its absolute apex.

Live news feeds broadcasted from the Vance ancestral mansion in the gated enclave of Broadmoor Heights. The iron gates that had once barred ordinary veterans from entering were smashed open by federal battering rams.

I stood beside Michael on the veranda of our headquarters, watching the television feed on my tablet.

Marcus Vance was led out in handcuffs, his expensive silk shirt stained with sweat, his head hung low as federal marshals guided him into the back of an unadorned transport van. Behind him, his son Gregory—the disgraced former major whose cowardice in the Shok Valley had started this decades-long war—screamed curses at the cameras until an agent shoved his head down into the cruiser.

The broadcaster’s voice was breathless: *"In what is being described as the largest public corruption and military fraud sweep in state history, the entire Vance commercial trust has been seized under federal civil asset forfeiture laws. In an unprecedented move, the Department of the Army has announced that all frozen assets will be transferred directly to the Fort Carson Veterans' Rehabilitation and Transition Foundation, spearheaded by Captain Lauren Bradley and Colonel Michael Harris."*

David Miller walked out onto the veranda, holding three cold bottles of Colorado craft beer. He handed one to Michael and one to me, his face split into a wide, boyish grin that completely erased the years of trauma and phantom pain he had carried since the war.

"To the fake medal," David toasted, laughing through tears as he tapped his bottle against mine. "The medal that brought down an empire."

"To the truth," I corrected gently, clinking my bottle against his. "And to the brothers and sisters who made sure it survived."

Michael wrapped an arm around my shoulders, drawing me close against his side as we looked out over the sprawling valley below. The land was ours. The easement was secured forever. The walls of the new rehabilitation clinic were rising from the earth, built on a foundation of unassailable honor.