Erica Sinclair - The Trek of Tears (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

When the US government decides to throw her late father under the bus to seal a political deal with the dictator of an African country, Erica Sinclair is taking up the fight, standing up to protect her father’s honor – even walking the Trek of Tears – deep in the jungles of Africa, because this case is as personal as it gets.
Follow Erica Sinclair in her most dangerous and challenging adventure.

[Jenny_S]

The floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline like a painting, the late morning light glinting off Erica Sinclair’s mahogany desk. The office is quiet with only the distant thrum of city traffic below filtering through the thick glass.

While reviewing a deposition, red pen in hand, Claire Messner, her trusted assistant, knocks at Erica’s door.

“Come, please,” Erica says without looking up.
She glances at the Rolex dive watch on her left wrist: 9:55 AM.

Claire slips in, carrying a neat stack of mail.
“Morning delivery,” she says. “Mostly bills, client correspondences, and one suspiciously thin letter from the government.”

This catches Erica’s attention. “Suspicious in what way?”

Claire crosses the room, heels soft against the floor, setting the mail down beside Erica’s laptop.
“It’s from the Department of the Army,” Claire says, a touch more gently now. “Figured I’d flag it.”

Erica’s eyes settled on the envelope. White. Standard. Unimposing.
But the sender - Department of the Army - is printed in precise serif lettering on the upper left corner. No postage meter. No handwritten address. The kind of letter that doesn’t come often. And never without consequence.

Her hand hesitates only for a second before she picks it up.

Claire lingers.
“Anything else?” Erica asks, tone smooth, unreadable, but in those years working for her boss, Claire has learned to look through the façade, the protective walls Erica has erected around herself.
She shakes her head. “No, that’s it.” Then, after a beat: “I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”

Of course, where else would she be, but her gut feeling tells her that this unassuming envelope might carry a significance that would affect her as well.

“Thank you, Claire,” Erica says, taking the letter opener from the top drawer of her mahogany desk, but waiting to open the envelope till the door has whispered close behind Claire.
Only then does she slice the envelope open, sliding out two neatly folded pieces of paper.

One is a formal letter, the other a form sheet.

Scanning the former, she reads:

Subject: Reassignment of Burial Site – Col. Sinclair, NMN, Owen - U.S. Army (Ret., Deceased)
Classification: Administrative Action Notice – Section 24.4(a)

Her breath catches somewhere between her ribs.
Her eyes narrow.
This isn’t good.

She reads the opening paragraph once.
Then again.
Slower.

“Pursuant to recent developments regarding unauthorized operations conducted by Special Missions personnel in 1994 within the sovereign territory of the Republic of Ngabo, and as part of a joint resolution between the U.S. Department of Defense and the Ngabo Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Department of the Army is undertaking a reevaluation of military honors and interment status associated with Colonel Owen Sinclair.”

They are doing…what?
She reads the words again - too polished, too surgical, as if grief doesn’t apply.
Her breath catches like a trap snapping shut between her ribs.

No.

No.

Then her gaze lifts - sharp and clear - out the window toward the skyline of the city that supposedly never sleeps.
And just like that, the stillness of the morning is gone.


~~~

[LunaDog]

To think, it was her father who gave Erica much of her inspiration in life.

But as we've seen here in the U.K. with the Horizon Post Office scandal, governments are NOT beyond throwing decent, honest people 'under the bus' in order to mask THEIR mistakes.

Good, promising start @Jenny_S

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, thank you so much. This is, in effect, the first in a miniseries within the Ericaverse where we learn more about her family - and in which Erica discovers a lot about herself. I wish you and all my readers a lot of fun and I hope that you will root for Erica. She needs the support. Really.

[LunaDog]

I hope that you will root for Erica. She needs the support. Really.

I rather suspect that you can put your mind at rest there, @Jenny_S

[Jenny_S]

The papers sit still on the desk, but everything feels off-kilter now. Erica’s breath is steady, measured. Her face is composed. But her fingers tap the desk - once, twice - then she grabs the receiver of the phone on her desk and dials the number of the office listed on the top of the letter.

A crisp automated voice greets her.
“Welcome to the Department of the Army. If you know your party’s extension, please say it after the tone…”

She closes her eyes and exhales, jaw tight. She navigates the menu - pressing buttons, raising her voice slightly to be understood over the automated prompts. Each new reroute grinds the tension deeper into her spine.

“Your call is being transferred. Please hold.”

Classical music filters through the receiver. Tinny. Hollow. Mocking her.

Then a click.

A human voice.

“Army Records and Memorial Affairs, Major Kendall speaking.”

Finally.

Erica sits straighter in her chair, spine a steel rod.
“Major Kendall, this is Erica Sinclair. I received a letter this morning regarding my father - Colonel Owen Sinclair. I need to speak to whoever is responsible for this… reevaluation.”

There’s a pause.

She can hear the Major pull something up on his computer as his keyboard is klacking. His voice is low, neutral. “Yes, Miss Sinclair. I’ve been assigned your father’s case.”

She doesn’t give him time to hide behind protocol.
“Why was this sent to me without any prior contact? What is going on? My father has been buried at Arlington for a decade. Decorated. Honored. Respected. What the hell is this about?”

The Major’s tone shifts - cooler now, as if reading from a script.
“I understand your concern. The Department is currently engaged in a multi-agency review of past Special Missions Operations. Certain actions, particularly those involving engagements without formal authorization, are being reassessed under the guidelines of the revised Joint Ethics Initiative.”

“That’s a lot of words to say nothing,” Erica snaps. “Be straight with me, Major.”

A beat.

Then:
“The Department has determined that during Operation Indigo Lantern – Ngabo, 1994, Colonel Sinclair acted outside the scope of his authority, exceeding the mission parameters. He ordered the death of an undetermined number of civilian non-combatants, specifically members of the Mekedde ethnic group.”

Erica freezes.

The line hums with silence.

Then, quieter than she means, she asks,
“…What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, Miss Sinclair,” he replies, voice firm now, “Your father disregarded his orders, went rogue and for those unsanctioned actions, your father will be formally stricken from the registry of honor interments. His remains will have to be reinterred at a location of your choosing. A private cemetery, perhaps. He will no longer be recognized as a recipient of the medals previously awarded for valor during that and other operations. The record will reflect his status accordingly.”

For a moment, Erica says nothing.

Her hand grips the phone like a lifeline and her throat tightens.
She stares through the glass beyond her windows, but she isn’t seeing the skyline anymore. Before her inner eye she sees the shoebox under her bed. Her father’s green beret, his medals.

She swallows.
“That's a lie.”

“I'm just relaying the findings, ma’am.” Major Kendall says robotically.

“You’re desecrating a hero’s grave.” she says, low and deadly. “He saved lives. He…” Her voice breaks.
She clamps it down.
For her, he has always been a hero.
No question about it.

There’s a pause and a breath on his end.
“Look, Miss Sinclair…this isn’t personal. It’s just part of…”

“You’re digging up my father. That’s damn personal, Major.”

Kendall doesn’t respond. He’s not interested in nuance. Or truth. Only his job.
“You should begin making arrangements.” he says. “The disinterment process will begin in sixty days unless a formal appeal is submitted.”

“I am the appeal,” she says, voice low but razor-sharp.

Then she ends the call.
Her hand trembles.
Outside, the sun glints off the city. But inside Erica’s office, there is only shadow now.


~~~

[Caesar73]

The first two Chapters are allready breathtaking. Setting the Stage. Especially the first Part. When Erica reads the Document. The cool, clinic language of an administrative Process.

The second Chapter? When Erica reads the Major the Riot Act. He tries to hide behind Protocol. I love Erica´s line: "I am the Appeal." I have the feeling whoever is behind this, did not do their Homework properly, or they could have known that Erica Sinclair won´t let this stand. Underestimating the Person you are dealing with is always a Mistake.

Some People did forget their Sun Tzu.

I am sure, this Tale will without a doubt be one of Erica´s most personal Cases. It can´t get any more personal. Her Father is her Hero. Attacking him, is attacking Erica herself.

Wonderful dear @Jenny_S

I am sure, we will read another gripping Tale from your Feather.

[LunaDog]

This Major Kendall sounds like a real 'jobsworth.'

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, you're right. This case is not about some client, it is as personal as it could possibly get. Her father made Erica who she is, he was her mentor, her Jedi master, the man whose every life lesson is as good as gospel to her. Stay tuned, this is about to become the fight of her life.
Thank you so much for being along for the ride.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, there are always people who follow orders regardless whatever the consequences may be and who are comfortable hiding behind bureaucratic mambo-jambo. Unfortunately, Kendall seems to have a mighty apparatus behind him.

[Jenny_S]

The line’s dead.
The silence that follows is absolute.
Erica’s hand remains on the receiver, fingers curled tight around it like she hasn’t quite registered that the call has ended.
Her eyes are fixed on nothing - just a point in space where certainty used to live.

The edges of her vision pulse.
A sound, distant and hollow, hums at the base of her skull.
She leans forward slowly, places the phone down on its cradle with precise control, like if she moves too fast the world might fall apart.

Then she exhales, and the breath is sharp - cutting.

She rises from her chair, the movement stiff and slow as she crosses the room in silence, every step deliberate.

The polished floor may swallow the sound of her footsteps, but Erica’s heart beats like a war drum.
Her eyes flick to the Harvard diploma displayed on the wall, then down.
And there they are…
Her and her father, frozen in time in a photo taken on her graduation day.
He’s wearing a sharp three-piece suit.
She’s in her cap and gown.
Their arms around each other, two steel spines bent just slightly by love.

She stares at the picture.
Her jaw tightens.
“No.” she whispers. “I won’t allow it…”

She doesn’t remember deciding to do it, but suddenly the frame is in her hands.
She holds it like evidence.
Like something fragile that shouldn’t have to defend itself.
Her thumb traces the edge of the picture glass.

Rogue soldier.
War criminal.
Disinterment – Dishonored.

She knows that he protected people.
He taught her everything that matters.
He is the reason she believes in justice at all.

As if he’s standing beside her, she can hear his voice, low and warm, telling her that there’s nothing more noble in this world than to defend those who cannot defend themselves.
These are words he deeply believed in – De Oppresso Liber.

Her father’s words echo in her head, wrapping around the conversation with Major Kendall.
She wants to scream.
Wants to storm down the hall of the Pentagon and shove the truth down their throats.

Instead, she sets the frame back down – gently – as if not to hurt her father.

Her fingers curl into fists at her sides.
Her breath quickens, shallow now.
The ache in her right shoulder flares, unbidden - phantom pain from an old wound.

She turns and walks toward the desk again.
Her movement is restless now, pacing, circling.
Trapped.

“He ordered the death of an unknown number of civilians.”
Those words make her stomach twist.
Her father would never do this.
Never!

She can feel it: disbelief clawing against a darker current.
Disbelief mixed with anger – and fear.
Not fear of what the Army says - but fear of what it means.
If the world rewrites who her father was… what does that make her?

A soft click makes her look up.
The door opens just enough to let someone slip in.

“Erica?” Claire’s voice is a whisper - delicate, uncertain.

Erica freezes.
Turns, slow.

Claire’s brows are pinched with concern, hands clasped together in front of her. She closes the door behind her with the same care she might use around a sleeping animal.
“What happened?”

Erica says nothing at first.
Her mouth opens, but the words refuse to form.
Then…
“They want to dig up my father - and everything he stood for.”

Claire blinks. She doesn’t understand. Of course not.
“…What?”

Erica swallows. Her voice is low, uneven, full of something ragged that Claire’s never heard from her before.
“The Department of the Army. They want me to make arrangements to bury my father somewhere else. They’re revoking his medals. Stripping his name from the honor roll at Arlington.”

Claire’s eyes widen. She takes a slow step forward.
“Why would they…”

“They’re calling him a rogue and a war criminal,” Erica cuts in, sharper now. “That he disobeyed orders… killed innocent civilians…”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Erica breathes through her nose, hard, blinking fast.
But the burn behind her eyes doesn’t go away.

“He would never do that,” she says - soft now, like it costs her something to even speak. “Not my father. He taught me to stand for something. To never compromise the truth. He saved people, Claire. I know he did.”

Claire moves closer, cautious but grounded. She places a hand gently on Erica’s arm.
Erica doesn’t flinch, but her shoulders are rigid, the tendons in her neck drawn like wire.

“Whatever this is,” Claire says softly, “you’re going to find out the truth. You always do.”

Erica’s mouth twitches.
Not a smile - just the ghost of a muscle fighting to hold formation.

“I need to know what happened in Ngabo.” Her voice steadies a little, clipped but determined. “I’m not letting them rewrite history.”

Claire nods once, still not fully comprehending, but she won’t let her boss down.
Never before has she seen her so shaken, not even when she got shot.

Looking at the photo on the console, Erica exhales through her teeth. “If they’re going to bury my father’s name, they might bury me just as well,” she rasps, grabbing the letter, her coat and her handbag.

“I’ll be in touch,” she says, pushing past Claire.


~~~


The elevator ride to the underground parking garage seems to take forever.
Erica wipes her face with her sleeve not caring if she smears her makeup or not.
With a little chime, the elevator doors slide open and she strides over to her black Volvo. Her heels sound hard on the concrete floor and the moist air with its distinct odor of oil, water and gasoline stinging her skin.

She unlocks her car and slides into the seat. Releasing a breath she had been holding, she pulls out her phone and scrolls down to a number she calls only when things are looking bad.

“Dance.” A gruff voice says after the seconds buzz.

“John, I need to see you,” Erica says, clipped and to the point. John Dance, former CIA operative, now freelance security consultant, knows that Erica wouldn’t ask to meet with him if not absolutely necessary.
“Old Town Café.” Then she adds in a whisper “Please.”

“On my way,” Dance confirms.

Erica turns the ignition and the Volvo hums to life. She takes the car up the ramp and pulls into the late morning traffic.

The drive over to the Old Town Café eats at her nerves more than she wants to admit and she catches herself yelling at other drivers and every red braking light in front of her.

Finding a parking spot half a block away from the cafè, she practically storms down the sidewalk toward the small place tucked between other old brick buildings.
Its sign is faded but charming and the whole joint appears like a relic from another era.
Inside the café, it’s dim and intimate. The chairs are worn and the tables scarred by decades of use.
Even this early in the day, the scent of half-burnt coffee mingles with the sharp tang of alcohol as some patrons are already nursing their drinks.

Drinks… Erica could use one now, but she wills herself not to and orders an Americano instead. She needs to stay sharp.

A table in the rear corner is vacant and that’s where she sets down her cup and saucer. Dance will find her there.

Half an hour later the little bell over the door chimes and John Dance walks in. Though tall and broad-shouldered, he looks average, unassuming. Moving like someone used to being forgotten, he’s blending into shadow like its muscle memory. His eyes find hers across the room, sharp and unreadable. He doesn’t have to ask if she’s okay. He knows she’s devastated.

He briefly stops at the bar, buys himself a mug of coffee black and then walks over to Erica’s table.


~~~

[Caesar73]

This Chapter captures the Shock Erica suffer´s so well.

That she is resolved to get to the bottom of this is no wonder. She has to. For her Father and for herself.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, despite her determination, she doesn't really know how to approach the many open questions she has. Tomorrow, we will see if a former CIA operative can help.

[LunaDog]

You said in your introduction the reason why Erica's father is being made a scapegoat is because the U.S. Government is trying to do some dodgy deal with an African dictator. At the moment i get the impression that Erica is unaware of this. Presumably this is exactly why she's turning to John Dance, i know he's proved to be a good friend and ally to her in the past.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, she's absolutely unaware of this. The letter from the Government hit her out of the blue and she has no idea what is going on behind the scenes.

[LunaDog]

As i understood, @Jenny_S Hopefully John Dance will be able to outline to her just WHY the army is behaving SO despicably towards her father here, and therefore, indirectly admittedly, to her. At least that may give her some sense of the direction that she has to adopt to in order to counter this complete outrage.

[Caesar73]

Dear @Caesar73, despite her determination, she doesn't really know how to approach the many open questions she has. Tomorrow, we will see if a former CIA operative can help.

Imagine me intrigued!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, let's hope that John can help...

[Jenny_S]

“You look bad,” Dance says, sliding into the seat across from her. His tone is blunt, but there’s a flicker of something else behind it. Concern. He clearly is looking at a woman on the brink of falling apart.

Erica doesn’t answer. Her lips twitch, but no words come. She reaches inside her coat with a shaking hand and pulls out the envelope. She slides it across the table like it’s evidence in a murder case - because it is, in a way.

Dance unfolds the paper. His eyes scan it fast - trained, efficient. No wasted movement. No wasted breath.
“Wow.” he mutters. Just that. The weight of it settles like dust.
He looks up. Sees her fists clenched tight in her lap. Pale knuckles. Nails digging in.

“This isn’t random, Erica. This is a chess move. And your father’s the pawn,” he says, voice softer now. “This kind of action - Arlington, decorations revoked - it’s clearly political. Surgical. Care to fill me in?”

Her voice is tight. Barely more than a whisper, clipped like gunfire.
“Ngabo. Nineteen ninety-four. He supposedly violated orders. Ordered innocent civilians killed.”
Then her throat catches.
Her lips press together so hard they go bloodless.
But she can’t hold it anymore.
“I don’t believe it,” she chokes. “Not for a second. My father would… never… do this.”

Dance watches her. Silent. His coffee steams between them, untouched now.
Her Americano sits cold.
Forgotten.

“Listen,” he says finally. “There’s a good chance…”
A pause. He adjusts the tone. Softer, careful.
“Your father did Black Ops. Missions that don’t exist. Off-the-books stuff with plausible deniability. Things like that don’t always stay clean.”

And that’s it.
That’s the spark.
Erica’s whole body tightens like a fault line ready to break.
Then it happens.
Her chair screeches back, tipping as she stands.

Fast.
Sudden.
Violent in its stillness.

She leans over the table, hands splayed like she might rip it in half.
“No.” Her voice is raw. Unfiltered rage and disbelief. “He didn’t. Do you hear me?”
Dance doesn’t move.
“Don’t question that. Ever!”

Her voice has teeth.
There’s something animal in it - feral grief, sharpened into defense.

The café hushes for a moment. The scraping of silverware on ceramic plates stops. Two old-timers at the counter glance over but say nothing.
Dance doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t push back.

“I know who he was,” Erica says, quieter now. Her voice trembles in the aftermath. “He’s the reason I am who I am. He taught me values. Not just procedure. Values!”

A beat of silence stretches between them.
Then Dance leans forward, elbows on the table. Steady. Grounded.
“Let me look into it,” he says. “I might be able to call in some favors.”

Erica sits back down. The chair creaks faintly beneath her. She stares at her untouched Americano, then at Dance’s cup - still steaming.
“I don’t even know what’s real anymore,” she whispers.

Dance taps the letter with two fingers.
“That’s politics,” he says. “Maybe I can help you find out what happened back then.”

Erica doesn’t answer. She just reaches out and mechanically takes a sip of her coffee - stone cold.


~~~


The apartment is dim when Erica unlocks the door and steps inside. The late afternoon light filters through half-drawn blinds, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor, the air in her sanctuary smelling faintly of lavender and something older - like memory pressed between pages.

Before she can close the door behind her, a soft meow cuts through the quiet. Then another. And then two streaks of fur rush toward her – Spot and Tiger, her kittens, tails high, eyes wide with expectation and instinct.

Erica crouches down slowly, letting them bump their little heads against her knees. Spot, the black one with the white tuft of fur on his chest, stands on his hind legs, paws on her thigh, while Tiger chirps and weaves between her ankles.

They sense it - her stillness. Her silence. The way her shoulders don’t relax like they usually do when she walks through the door.
But they don’t ask questions nor do they judge. They just love.

“Hey,” she murmurs, voice barely there. “I know, I’m late.”

She rises and walks into the kitchen, the kittens trotting behind her with cheerful persistence. The routine anchors her: rinse the bowls, dry them, scoop the food. She opens the cabinet, grabs their kibble with practiced hands, and pours. The sound of the dry pellets hitting ceramic feels too loud in the silence of the apartment.

The cats dig in the moment she sets the bowls down in the living room, purring like tiny engines.
Erica leans against the door frame, watching them. A ghost of a smile flickers across her lips, gone before it even forms.
Spot pauses mid-crunch, glancing up at her with those curious, marble-round eyes - like he knows she’s not okay.
Erica doesn’t meet his gaze.
She walks to the bedroom.

The air here feels heavier somehow - cooler, still.
She shrugs out of her coat and drops her bag onto the Hillhouse designer chair by the door, then kneels beside the bed.
Reaching underneath, her fingers brush against the cardboard of a familiar shape: the shoebox with memories of her family reaching back to the Civil War.

She pulls it out and carries it over into the living room, setting it down on the black leather couch. For a moment, she just sits beside it, staring at the lid.
She hesitates, her hand hovers, then she slowly opens it.
Inside, time folds in on itself.

There’s the small blue plastic case. She opens it and sees her parents’ wedding rings - simple gold bands, dulled slightly with age, but still catching the light.
She sets them aside and lifts up the green beret - his beret.
Faded now, soft from the years.
She presses it to her chest without meaning to, eyes closing just for a second.
Then come the medals.
Purple Hearts, Bronze Stars. Silver Stars. Distinguished Service Cross.
Her breath catches as she touches them, fingertips skimming the edges, the ribbons.
Each one with its citation, white official parchment imprinted with words like valor, initiative, extraordinary bravery under fire.

They want to take this away from him. Reduce him to a footnote and paint him as a villain.
She puts the medals back into the shoebox, covers them with the green beret, sealing them like a promise. They will not take them away. She will not allow it.

Her hands tremble as she reaches for her wrist and unclasps the Rolex dive watch – the one her father gifted her upon her graduation from Harvard Law School, her most prized possession. She flips it over and runs her thumb along the inscription etched into the caseback:

Stand for something or fall for anything

She swallows hard.
At first, there’s a whisper. Then louder. His voice, deep and steady:

“There’s nothing in this world more noble than helping those who cannot help themselves.”

A breath shudders out of her. Not quite a sob. Not quite relief.

She holds the watch in her hands like a tether to him, like it ticks with the rhythm of her own convictions.
Everything he believed in.
Everything she became because of him.

And now they are saying he betrayed it all.
Her eyes burn, but no tears fall. Not yet.
Not until she knows.


~~~


Sleep doesn’t find Erica this night, not even after half a bottle of Nero d’Avola. Restlessly, she paces up and down her living room, only to stand by the window staring at the photo showing her two-year-old self toddling between her parents, his father’s protective arm around her mother’s shoulders, all laughing. The photo was taken shortly before death tore her mother from them. Burying her in her homeland, he buried half his heart in the ground and poured the rest into raising his daughter.

She sits down on the couch, the black leather creaking slightly under her weight as if trying to tell her to lean back and relax.
But she can’t.
Her mind is spinning and one thought – unwanted but unable to ignore – keeps creeping to the forefront: what if the accusations… are true?

What if her father ordered the death of innocent civilians?
What if…

She presses her knuckles to her lips as the question slams through her like a wrecking ball, and no amount of pacing can keep it at bay. It stalks her in every shadow of the room.

Finally, she falls into something of a slight slumber, only to be pulled out of it by the soft buzz of her phone at 5 AM the next morning.

As if she had aged twenty years overnight, stiffness in her joints, she rolls her shoulders and like a robot, goes through the motions of her routine, hoping to find a little calm.
Not even her run can clear her head and instead of pacing with her usual light step she finds herself dragging her feet like an amateur and when she gets dressed for the day, showered and her tired face touched up with a little makeup, the Rolex on her left wrist feels heavy like a millstone.

She needs to fill out the appeal form. If nothing else, it might buy time. A lifeline - paper-thin but real.
The thought of them digging up her father’s grave makes her sick to her stomach.


~~~

[LunaDog]

WOW! SO full of RAW emotion, brilliantly described @Jenny_S I know that i'm an old git, but i so much wish i could give Erica a loving cuddle right here and now. Your story telling is SO good that i really do think of her as REAL!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, thank you so much for your comment. If this isn't the nicest thing I've heard in a long time, I don't know what is.
You made my day!

[LunaDog]

You're welcome @Jenny_S I mean EVERY word of what i say, this really IS work worthy of a 'first rate.'

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, then let's see what the next day brings for Erica.

[Jenny_S]

Later that next day, sitting at her polished mahogany desk, Erica can’t help herself staring at the graduation photo on the wall console. Under her diploma, the little display looks like a shrine, something she had never realized until now.
Or is it an accusation?

Never in her life had she been so confused.
She promised her father – herself – that she would always stand for something. Come hell or high water.
But now?

The envelope with her appeal sits like a landmine just inches from her hand.
At least, it will go out with today’s mail, registered, of course.

A soft knock breaks the silence
She flinches, then looks up. Her voice barely above a whisper:

“Yes?”

The door opens and Claire steps in, hands clasped, eyes carefully gentle.
“Erica, you’ve got a visitor. Mr. Dance.”

Erica sits up straighter, heart lurching.
Dance.
He wouldn’t come unless…
Before she can reply, he’s already stepping into the room, his presence quiet but undeniable.
“Thank you, Mrs. Messner,” he says with a nod, closing the door behind him.

For a heartbeat, nothing moves.
Erica exhales. Just a small, shaky breath. But it’s the first one that doesn’t feel like drowning.

He doesn’t have to say anything.

Not yet.

His presence alone cuts through the haze like a blade although he, too, looks as if he hasn’t slept last night. Still, there’s a glimmer of something she hasn’t felt since the letter arrived.
Hope.


~~~


He unzips his windbreaker with practiced calm, folds it over the back of the chair, and lowers himself into the seat across from Erica. His movements are deliberate.
Controlled.
Like a man trained not to waste energy - especially when delivering bad news.
He flips open a small, battered notepad. The pages are curled at the edges, some dog-eared, others watermarked with the ghosts of previous storms.
He doesn’t ease into it.

“The amount of red tape slapped on what the Army calls Operation Indigo Lantern is incredible.”
His voice is steady, clinical, the tone of a man who’s seen too many things filed under “classified” for comfort.

“My contacts - trusted ones - told me to stay far away from it. The official story is this: back in ’94, a coup took place in Ngabo. Jonas Bundu, a rebel general, tried to oust President Louis Amoyo. Amoyo was valuable to us at the time. So your father’s Special Missions Unit was tasked with extracting him.”

Erica doesn’t move.
Doesn’t blink.
Her nails dig slightly into the armrests of her chair.
Rescue mission.
That tracks.
Her father had hinted at those, in the offhand way soldiers speak of war - deliberately vague.

Dance pauses, then continues.
“Now, what I’m going to say next… it might not go down easily, Erica.”
His voice softens, losing some of its gravel. It feels like the calm before a detonation.
“Most of the reports - your father’s included - have recently disappeared. Others are sealed so tight that even my people couldn’t touch them. That’s no accident. It’s a system working exactly the way it was designed to.”

He watches her.
Measuring.
Hesitating.
Testing.
Not for permission - just resilience.
The distant sound of a police siren filters through the thick glass of the windows.

“All that’s left in the file is the official narrative. It says your father and his team went in hot - trigger-happy. In a case of bad – very bad – judgement, they killed the president, his entire cabinet, and then, while withdrawing, massacred members of the Mekedde ethnic group who tried to stop them.”

A silence falls like lead.
“They say he botched it so badly, the only way to clean it up was to bury it. So they offered him honorable retirement… and a hero’s silence.”

The words feel like a gut punch.
Erica’s face drains of color.
Her jaw tightens, trembling at the edges.
Her lips part, but no sound comes.

Dance raises a hand - not to interrupt, but to anchor her.
“I don’t believe it either,” he says firmly. “None of it smells right. Too tidy. Too political. And with this current administration playing nice with Ngabo, it’s awfully convenient timing.”

The rage doesn’t hit all at once - it simmers, slow and deep.
Erica swallows it down. Hard. W
hen she speaks, her voice is different.
Firmer.
Burnished steel.
“I’ll find out what really happened.”

Dance cocks an eyebrow.
“How?”

“I don’t know yet.”
The honesty costs her nothing now.
“If I have to, I’ll go to Ngabo. I’ll talk to people. Find someone who was there.”

Dance exhales, a dry sound like gravel scraping metal. He leans back, crosses his arms.
“Erica… have you ever been to Africa? I don’t mean the Med coast or a Nile cruise - I mean deep Africa. Remote villages. No phones. No rules.”

She shakes her head, defiant.

No.
But she doesn’t care.
She’s done sitting in silence.
She’s done being fed lies.

“You can’t just show up. There’ll be eyes on you the second you land. Secret police, military intelligence, state media. You won’t even make it past the airport before they slap handcuffs on you.”

“I’ll…”

“No.”
He cuts her off, but there’s no anger in it.
Just realism.
“Let’s be real. We might be able to crack this. But not by kicking in the front door. We need a plan.”

She hears it - that “we”. It doesn’t slip past her.
“We?” Her voice is sharp, caught between surprise and suspicion.

Dance just nods.
“You didn’t think I’d let you go alone, did you?”

A beat.

Then:
“Here’s the game plan…”

Erica leans in, listens, her pulse steady now. Her breath no longer shallow.
She’s not alone in this.
There’s a faint burning sensation on her left wrist – as if the chunky Rolex is trying to remind her of who she is.

And if the truth is buried, they’re about to start digging.


~~~


Rain dots the glass on the windows in fat, lazy drops that trace slow patterns down the window like the day itself is holding its breath.

John Dance sits opposite Erica, the notepad now closed, but the weight of what he’s saying still presses down on the room like a loaded weapon.

“Just in case you’re not up to speed on foreign affairs,” he begins, voice low and precise, “Our administration has signed a shiny new contract with President-for-life, Field Marshal Professor Jonas Bundu of Ngabo.”
He doesn’t even try to hide the disdain in his voice when he rattles down the dictator’s official titles.
“We get access to valuable metals, rare earths, and minerals. They get bulldozers, bridges, and a PR cleanup courtesy of Uncle Sam.”

A beat.

“My take?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on her. “To rebrand Bundu as a credible ally, someone high up decided to throw your father under the bus.”

Erica blinks slowly, the words slamming into her like a sucker punch. She isn’t just angry - she’s stunned. It’s not just betrayal. It’s desecration.
Her voice is almost a whisper. “So that’s it? That’s the play?”

Dance nods grimly.
“Your father’s dead. Buried. Can’t defend himself. For the Army, revoking his medals and digging him up at Arlington is just a box to tick on a checklist.”

Her fingers curl into fists on the polished desk.

They don’t know.

They don’t know who they’re dealing with.

She is Owen Sinclair’s daughter.
And her father taught her to fight like the third lioness on Noah’s Ark the moment the skies opened up.

Never give in.
Never give up.
Not even when the whole goddamn flood is coming.

Dance recognizes the shift in Erica.

He could say goodbye now and that would be it, but he doesn’t. There are about one hundred good reasons he had left the CIA, none of them pretty.

“Right now,” Dance continues, “there’s a decent number of Americans in Ngabo: construction companies, engineers, mining consultants. If we go in as journalists, we’ll have cover.”

Erica looks up. Her pulse kicks into a different rhythm.
“You’re serious?”

Dance nods.
“I can get us press credentials - real ones. And passports – real ones. Give me two days to set it up. Then it’s JFK to Paris. Paris to Ngabo.”

The plan drops like a match into dry brush.
Flames leap through her chest.
This is real.

It’s the most dangerous thing she’s ever considered.
Beyond her legal world.
Beyond courtrooms and ethics boards. Way out of her comfort zone.

This is deep-country, classified, in the shadows, cloak-and-dagger stuff. But it might well be the only road toward the truth.
The only road left to protect her father's name.

The weight of Dance’s suggestion breaks through her composure.
Her throat tightens, tears springing to her eyes, full of anger, love, disbelief, and defiance.
She doesn’t blink them away.
She lets them fall.
One or two slip down her cheek before she wipes them off with the sleeve of her charcoal blazer.

“I’m in,” she rasps.
Then, quieter, the words barely audible but filled with steel: “Let’s get this war started.”
This is what her father used to say.

Dance just nods, and a flicker of something crosses his face - respect. Maybe even admiration as he realizes that Erica means what she says.

Outside, the low rumble of an approaching thunderstorm joins the rain.


~~~

[LunaDog]

John Dance is once more proving to be a real friend. He's willing to put his own life on the line for Erica here, it seems. Good for him.