Stories of Tie Up Games

Dear @Caesar73, tonight's episode with the call to Major Kendall will be a little longer than my usual episodes, but I don't want to bring it to you bit by bit. Erica is too much on the war path now.

Jenny_S wrote: 1 week ago Erica is too much on the war path now.

And who can blame her? A person very dear to her, the man who gave her her inspiration in life, is having his memory 'torn apart,' and for what? To appease some 'tin pot' African dictator who has no regard for other's human rights, as witnessed by Erica herself on that ride to the hotel in Africa. No wonder she's wound up? The 'jobsworth' is in for the shock of his life here, his little world in which his decisions are golden is about to be utterly smashed. And deserved so.

Today, no fixer waits outside with mirrored sunglasses and a bamboo toothpick, leaning on the hood of a beaten-up Land Cruiser.
No smell of petrol or charred brush.
No checkpoints to cross, no AK-47s in view.
Just her black Volvo parked as she left it, in the garage underneath her apartment building.

Erica slides behind the wheel of her XC60, the leather seat familiar and cool against her back. The engine hums to life as she turns the ignition - sleek, precise.
Not a single cloud of diesel.
Not a hiccup.
Just quiet Scandinavian engineering and the steady rhythm of her breath. She believes that she can even smell the scent of almond oil from the hand lotion in the glove compartment.
Her fingers tighten briefly around the wheel.

She pulls up the ramp, merging into the slow tide of Manhattan morning traffic.

After Ngabo, after the jungle and the heat and the unmarked graves, even New York's morning traffic feels like serenity.
Like smooth water.
The chaos here is boxed in - orderly, contained.
The horns are impatient but not desperate.
There are no trucks loaded with men and machine guns, no checkpoints run by barely post-pubescent boys with twitchy trigger fingers.
Just commuters.
Just motion – slow, but steady.

By the time she pulls into the underground garage beneath the sleek glass-and-steel high-rise that houses Sinclair & Associates, her mind has already shifted into forward motion. She parks in her designated spot.

The elevator ride to the 25th floor is silent but for the faint hum of the city below and her own heartbeat hammering beneath her ribs. She catches a glimpse of herself in the polished chrome panel.
There she is.
Backlit by sleek artificial light, her reflection shows the same cool, professional exterior: blazer pressed, blouse flawless, skirt hugging her athletic frame just right. Hair sleek. Lips a soft, neutral mauve.
Not a trace of Africa.
Not a hint of jungle sweat or grief.
But she can feel the heat still under her skin.
The clarity.
The burn.

Game face on.
Yet, some part of her - the part forged on the dark continent - no longer plays the same games.

The elevator chimes, its door glides open.
Erica steps into the lobby of Sinclair & Associates, heels striking the marble floor with quiet precision.
Behind the curved reception desk sits Holly Beck, their bright-eyed assistant, flipping through a folder with invoices and contracts. She looks up and beams, surprised but polished. “Good morning, Mrs. Sinclair,” she says, all sunny cheer, like she hasn’t been refreshing the office calendar for a week, waiting for her boss to return.

Erica nods as she passes. “Good morning, Holly.” The voice she uses is smooth. Warm.
But clipped.
Not an invitation.

She moves down the hall like a ghost returning to haunt her own territory. Familiar door. Familiar frosted glass with her name etched in perfect serif font.
Inside, the scent of paper and wood polish is comforting. Her domain.
The door clicks shut behind her - and then a knock.

Of course.
“Come in, Claire,” Erica says, already shrugging out of her trench coat, hanging it on the hook beside the bookcase with unconscious precision.

Claire Messner enters like a breeze - quiet, observant, carefully put together in muted tones and impeccable tailoring. She closes the door behind her but doesn’t move further into the room. She knows Erica too well.
Claire doesn’t ask where she’s been. She won’t. But Erica sees it in the flicker of her eyes, the way she tilts her head, calculating.
Instead, Claire just offers, “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Erica?”

Erica pauses mid-motion, one hand still brushing a stray thread off her blazer.
“That would be great. Thank you.” Her voice softens, just a touch. “I’m still somewhat jetlagged.”

Claire freezes mid-nod.
Jetlag.
Her eyes widen, ever so slightly. That one word is a cipher, and Claire’s too smart not to break the code. Jetlag means overseas. Means she wasn’t just taking a couple of days personal time to go to Bedford where Lea is stabled.

“You didn’t really…” Claire starts, then trails off.

“I did,” Erica says quietly, powering up her computer with a soft chime. “I had to.”
Her fingers hover over the keyboard, but her eyes meet Claire’s now, sharp and unwavering.
“Until further notice, please - no calls. No visitors. There’s something I need to straighten out.”

Claire knows. There’s no need for her to press for more information. Erica had confided in her before she left. She nods once.
“Absolutely, Erica.” Then, after a heartbeat: “Good luck.”
She leaves the way she came - graceful, silent, reliable.
The door clicks closed behind her.

And just like that, Erica is alone again.
But not the same.


~~~


The office is quiet but for the low hum of the air vent and the occasional creak of her leather chair. Sunlight bleeds through the blinds in pale gold stripes, slashing across Erica’s desk like prison bars.

Her eyes drift to the graduation photo on the console: her and her father, smiling in a different world.
She remembers one of the life lessons he had taught her, true in war as in business.

“When you get ambushed, don’t lie low. Grab the initiative. Counterattack. It’s the last thing they expect.”

And today, the war is on, just without bullets flying.

Deliberately, she opens the top drawer and takes out the letter she received from the Army which put everything that happened during these past days, in motion.
Her fingers brush over the embossed letterhead of the Department of the Army. The document seems to be oozing the impersonal weight of bureaucracy. Major Kendall’s name is printed crisply under his signature, his number and email address sit in the upper right-hand corner, boxed neatly like they’re too important to be overlooked.

Leaning back in her chair, Erica focuses on the phone on her desk, forcing herself to slow her breathing and to lower her heart rate, steeling herself for what lies ahead now.
There’s no need to put this off until later.
The Army drew first blood and now it is time to strike back.

For a beat, her fingers hover over the phone’s keypad, poised and steady – not trembling. Her jaw set, she dials Major Kendall’s number only to be routed through the automated answering system for a couple of minutes till the line clicks and her call is finally transferred to the first line of defense she needs to breach.

Long, expectant ring tones are stretching the silence.
On the fourth ring: “Kendall.”
His voice is cool, efficient – like a perfectly starched uniform.

“This is Erica Sinclair.” Her voice is low and deliberate. Kind, not harsh. “I’d like to inquire about the status of my appeal against the planned disinterment of my father, Colonel Owen Sinclair.”

While she speaks, she can hear the sound of papers being shuffled and Kendall’s breathing. Maybe he had hoped that she would just roll over, take his advice and find some other cemetery to bury her father’s remains.
Erica imagines him sitting in some Pentagon cubicle, neat as a blade, the kind of man who would rather chew glass than admit error.

“I have the file in front of me now, Miss Sinclair,” he says, his voice as robotic and impersonal as humanly possible. “The review board convened and it was unanimously decided that your appeal cannot be honored. The decision stands. I’m sorry.”

There it is.
The ambush.

The way he speaks, as if it’s a line thoroughly rehearsed, makes it very clear that he is not sorry at all. He doesn’t even care.

Erica’s stomach coils like a fist for a brief second. Maybe, deep inside she had hoped to avoid this confrontation, maybe she had hoped that her appeal might have stood a chance of being honored.
Her gaze hardens and her voice now has an edge of steel under the velvet.

“Major, I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but since you’re forcing my hand…” she says. “I’ve just returned from Ngabo and Mbeke and brought back irrefutable proof that the accusations your Department has piled up to frame my father as a war criminal are - pardon my French, Major - utter bullshit.”


~~~



Sighing audibly, Kendall tries to brush Erica off. It’s a technique that has worked with others in the past.
“Miss Sinclair, I understand your emotions are running high, but your claims don’t change what’s in the official record.”

“Evidence, Major. Not claims,” she says calmly. “Here on my desk, I have sworn testimonies of the spiritual leaders of the Mekedde ethnic group, people who survived what they call the “Trek of Tears” - their exodus from Ngabo to Mbeke in 1994. They state that my father and his team found them in the jungle expecting to be slaughtered by the Simba troops of then General Bundu. Instead of heading to their rendezvous point, our soldiers protected these innocent civilians and guided them across the border. Nine members of my father’s team gave their lives to ensure that 300 Mekedde could survive and start anew in Mbeke.”

She can hear his mind working now, faster.
Trying to assess whether she’s bluffing.

“I don’t doubt that you believe that’s what happened,” he defends.

“Major, I have two hours of filmed interviews with survivors of this narrow escape - and the dog tags the Mekedde recovered from the bodies of the fallen soldiers. They buried them and care for their graves to this day. They revere my father and his team as heroes.”

Standing, now her voice takes the cold, hard edge she reserves for certain confrontations in court.

“I believe it is time, Major, the Army revises its narrative that these nine men all died in traffic and training accidents and I strongly advise you to tell your boss or whoever moves and shakes things at your end, to abandon the idea of dishonoring my father to make the former General Bundu look like a fine guy to do business with.”

Kendall allows himself a pause.
The sound of the gears grinding behind his silence are almost deafening.

At last, his voice comes, flatter than before.
“You don’t understand how these decisions are made, Miss Sinclair. There are larger diplomatic factors at play. Far larger than you can possibly fathom.”

Whatever Kendall says, Erica is having none of it.
She’s on the warpath.
“Should you decide to stand by your narrative, Major, I’m well prepared to release all my findings and evidence to the media so the nation knows what our leaders are willing to sacrifice if it helps them make a deal.”

As she awaits Kendall’s reply, Erica sees her reflection in the glass of the tall floor to ceiling window - all edges - blouse crisp, eyes colder than steel. Although her heart drums against her ribs, she manages to keep her cool.

There’s a beat of dead silence on the other end. “You’re threatening to leak classified material?” he asks, coolly now. Defensively.

Erica hears the sliver of uncertainty in his voice, recognizes the crack in the polished surface.

“Do not take me for just another grieving daughter, Major,” she says, softly now, but not less insistent. “Go ahead if you want to duke this out.”

Kendall takes another moment to consider his next move.
When he speaks again, his tone is cautious, but no longer dismissive.
“…I understand your position, Miss Sinclair.”

“No,” she replies, quieter now. “I don’t think you do. But you will.”

Another beat. Then:
“I’ll… pass your message along to the appropriate parties. You’ll hear back from us shortly.”

“That’s all I’m asking, Major.”
She ends the call.

The dial tone buzzes in the silence of her office, cold and abrupt.

Erica stands there a moment longer, heart still thrumming, jaw clenched.
Then, with slow precision, she places the phone back in its cradle and releases a breath she has been holding.
She’s won this battle.
But the war isn’t over.
Not yet.

This is why she knows a follow-up is required.
Not just a reminder - but a message.
A warning shot, veiled in professional courtesy.

Something to jog the good Major’s memory and let him know this isn't going away.
A clean paper trail - even if only electronically - can be just as much of a weapon as a machine gun.


~~~


Erica sits down behind her polished mahogany desk, the surface catching the faint glint of sunlight like a blade.
She exhales slowly and unlocks her laptop with a quiet click.

The air in the office is thick with stillness, the kind that feels almost expectant.

During their layover in Paris, while most passengers were dozing or scrolling through their social media feeds, she had prepared for this moment. Hunched over her phone, she had spliced together clips from her interviews with the Mekedde veterans.
The footage she created isn’t professionally slick or cinematic - it doesn’t have to be. It bleeds truth:
Wide, wet eyes.
Calloused hands trembling as they speak.
Names remembered.
Faces lost.
And always, always: “Sinclair.”
Kintu Moyo – lion among men.

Now, with the call to Kendall still vibrating in her nerves, she begins composing the email. Her fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment, then begin typing with swift, surgical precision. The tone is firm but measured.
Unemotional.
The kind of legalese that leaves no room for misunderstanding but doesn’t tip its full hand either.

She reviews the draft, cross-references her own legal checklist.
Then again.
A third time, slower now.

It’s all there: a reference to two hours of raw, unedited interview footage with Mekedde elders and survivors of the “Trek of Tears.”; mention of signed and notarized transcripts from Mama M’batha and Papa Niyoyo, high-ranking bishops within the Mekedde community and confirmation of the gravesite of the nine American soldiers - though, notably, no coordinates are shared.
She trusts John Dance’s instincts on that one: “Can’t be too careful. They’ve rewritten history once already.”

She hesitates for only a second before attaching the compressed video - just under five minutes - and a high-resolution image of the recovered dog tags. The names are crystal clear, stamped into the worn steel, the kind of evidence that even the most creatively inclined Army bureaucrat will struggle to explain away.

She re-reads the email once more.
Finds it airtight.
But still, there’s slight hesitation in her.
What if this gets buried?
What if they come for her?

It doesn’t matter, she decides.
De Oppresso Liber.
Hooah!
Then, without fanfare, she presses Send.

The whoosh of the outgoing message feels louder than it should.

Final.

Rockets away.

This email has the potential to upset someone’s carefully balanced applecart in Washington, D.C. The kind where international deals are brokered behind closed doors and fallen soldiers become inconvenient footnotes.

Erica stares at the screen, then leans back in her chair, heart thrumming beneath her ribs like a distant drumline. But her face remains still. Composed.

She turns her gaze to the photo on the console.
Graduation day.
Her arm wrapped around her father’s waist, his arm on her shoulder.
Both of them smiling as if the world hadn’t yet learned how to betray them.

“I hope you’re proud of your little girl, Dad,” she whispers.

Outside, the city hums.
Unaware.
Unconcerned.

“I won’t let you down. Come hell or high water.”

She closes the laptop with a quiet snap.
War is rarely declared with guns anymore. Sometimes, it begins with an email.

Her cell phone buzzes with a push message: Major Kendall has opened her email.
Now all she can do is wait.


~~~

Jenny_S wrote: 1 week ago Her cell phone buzzes with a push message: Major Kendall has opened her email.
Now all she can do is wait.

Indeed. But her threat to take this to the press should do the trick. There's no way the bureaucrats who made the decision to sacrifice her father's reputation will want the evidence to the contrary that Erica possesses in the public domain.

After all, it might well prove to be more than Major Kendall's job is worth!

Dear @LunaDog, we will find out if the wait is really worth it, but I'm sure the decisions are made way above a Major's pay grade.

I've NO doubt at all about that. At the end of the day, Kendall's nothing more than a 'mouthpiece,' told just what to say. But i'll bet he's very uncomfortable right now, he was told to pass on his superiors decision, and they might well blame him for that decision being questioned here. In a manner that they won't like. It might have even been his suggestion in the first place.

Dear @LunaDog, seeing how invested you and the other readers are in the characters I show you, inspires me so much. It is not just Erica you root for, but you also think about the other characters, suggest what makes them tick and how they fit into the larger picture.
Believe it or not, I'm still receiving requests to bring back Darren Cross and his girl Chrissy from a previous story and I'm thinking about a strong, realistic plot involving them.
I'm so grateful to readers like you, Caesar and all the others (you know who you are), it's beyond description.

So let's crack on, right?

Her trench coat draped over her arm and her handbag slung over her shoulder, Erica steps out of her office. The hallway is quiet, cloaked in the kind of lunchtime hush that makes footsteps sound louder than they are.

At her desk, Claire looks up from her computer screen.
The low glow of her monitor lights her face, and for a beat, their eyes meet. Claire doesn’t say anything - not at first. But she knows her boss too well.
And she can see it: something in Erica’s shoulders, in the slightly more deliberate way she walks.
The exhaustion she keeps behind that polished armor. The past days have been harder on her than she is willing to let Claire know.

“I’ll be out for the rest of the day,” Erica says, adjusting the strap of her bag. “If anything urgent comes up, you can reach me on my mobile. I’m going to check on Lea.”

Lea - Erica’s Cleveland Bay mare, the most recent addition to her little menagerie, stabled an hour North of the city at Ironwood Pastures, the place where she is well cared for and lives the happy life of a horse.

Claire’s smile is soft and real. “Enjoy your day, Erica.” And just before she closes the door behind her, she adds “You let me know if you need me… please.”

For a few months they are now on a first-name basis, at least when they are alone, and it feels like they have become a lot closer since Erica made Claire the offer.
Although still employer and employee, but around the office, they are next best thing to friends.

“Thanks. I will.” Erica’s lips curl into the barest smile as she walks toward the elevators.
Behind her, Claire watches the doors slide shut.


~~~


A faint buzz stirs her from sleep the next morning.
Erica groans softly, reaching across the sheets to her nightstand.
Her fingers fumble for the phone before brushing against cool glass and swiping it up.
5:00 AM.

Her inbox loads with a flick of her thumb.
Empty - aside from a smattering of newsletters and a scheduling update from her firm’s cloud calendar.

No reply from Kendall.
No hint of fallout.

Not yet.
Of course.
Not this early in the day.

She lets the phone fall beside her and stares at the ceiling, the shadows on the plaster still blue with early morning.
Her heart isn’t pounding - not exactly - but there’s a hum beneath her ribs.
Waiting.
Like thunder behind the hills.

With a sigh, she swings her legs out of bed, feet brushing the cool, smooth hardwood floor.
A stretch.
A pause.
Then: time to feed the kittens.

They’re where she left them - in a tangle of tiny limbs and twitching ears by the air vent.
As she steps into the living room, the fluffball stirs.
Little paws stretch, tails flick, and high-pitched mews rise in greeting.
Erica crouches down, smiling despite herself, picking up their empty water and food bowls.

Some part of her is grateful for this routine. For the grounding normalcy of small lives that need her.
It reminds her that not everything has to be a fight.

After her satisfying morning run, she showers, fixes a quick breakfast of coffee and oatmeal, then dresses.
Pantsuit, silk blouse, moccasins. No heels today. Sensible flats.
Her hair tied back into a sleek ponytail.
She pauses briefly in front of the mirror - eyes locked on her own reflection, searching for signs of the tension she’s carried since her return.

But all she sees is calm.
Cold and smooth.

The traffic is light at this hour.
She skirts around the Southern end of Central Park with the sun just beginning to crest over the horizon, bathing the skyline in that pale, cinematic gold they try to put on postcards but can’t really capture.
On the radio, a cello piece from some classical station fills the silence, deep and resonant.

Still no message alert.
She checks her inbox again at a red light.
Nothing.

She doesn’t know what’s more unnerving - that Kendall hasn’t responded yet, or that he might be deciding how to.


~~~


Claire has already unlocked the office suite when Erica arrives.
She’s sorting through a stack of mail and doesn’t immediately notice her boss slip in.

“Good morning,” Erica says as she steps out of her coat and drapes it over the rack.
Claire jumps slightly. “Good morning, Erica. You’re early.”

“I still feel bad for sleeping in yesterday.” Erica realizes too late, how uncharacteristically candid it sounds.
Claire smiles, sensing the shift. “You earned it.”

Once seated behind her desk, Erica powers up her computer.
Her inbox pings steadily: a flood of updates from clients, copies of internal memos from the associates and their paralegals, a couple of minor crises that her team managed while she was away.
She begins sorting, replying, prioritizing.

There’s comfort in it - in the clean, linear logic of casework.
It’s not that her father’s battle has taken a backseat, but here, she can act without waiting for someone else’s reply.
Still, she wonders if something is either happening, or if someone’s trying very hard to stall it.

Claire knocks softly and enters her office, setting a mug of coffee – two Sweet’n Low and a splash of almond milk – on her desk with a smile.
It is not exactly her job to get Erica her daily dose of caffeine, but Claire does it nonetheless, a small but kind gesture.

“Thanks, Claire,” Erica says, taking her first sip.

“Anything for you,” Claire replies smoothly. She knows exactly how important she is for this office and how much her work is appreciated.

Erica puts the mug down and turns toward her workload again, jaw tight.
It’s going to be a long morning.


~~~


It’s just past noon when Erica slips her phone into her coat pocket and grabs her gym bag from under her desk.
The day has been long already with things basically done on autopilot - but now, finally, she’s ready to disappear for an hour into the rhythmic punishment of weights and reps. Muscle Buster’s Gym isn’t exactly a sanctuary, but it does wonders for clearing her head. It’s part of her self-care routine.

Somehow, after returning from Mbeke she had expected getting back to her usual life much easier and quicker, but then, it had been a trip to a Third World country full of impressions she hadn’t expected either.

Just as she reaches for the door, the phone on her desk buzzes. The signal indicates a call from within the office.
She turns around, lifts the receiver to her ear and says “Yes?”

Holly Beck’s cheerful voice rings through the speaker.
“Mrs. Sinclair, I’ve got a Mr. Greaves for you. He sounds like it is important.”

The name doesn’t sound familiar, but lots of people call, sounding important and urgent.
“Put him through, please.”
She can hear the soft click as Holly transfers the call from her phone system to Erica’s extension.

“Erica Sinclair.”

There’s a slight delay - just long enough to register - and then a voice comes through: male, mid-40s maybe. Smooth, clipped, and instinctively, she freezes.

“Miss Sinclair, this is Samuel Greaves from the U.S. Department of State. We received a referral from the Department of the Army regarding the materials you submitted concerning Colonel Owen Sinclair.”
The man sounds polished, but with none of the affected courtesy that signals a brush-off.

Her spine straightens like someone’s pulled a thread tight through the center of her back. Her voice is steady - just barely.
“Yes. I’m aware.”
Fingers tightening around the receiver, she feels her pulse ticking up and silently breathes deeply in and out.

“We weren’t expecting to revisit this file, but we’d like you to bring your documentation to Washington. In person. A private meeting is being arranged with members of our Africa Policy Division and a representative from the Joint Chiefs.”

The room feels suddenly smaller.
She doesn’t remember sitting down, but somehow her chair is behind her again and she lowers into it, careful, composed.

“When?” she asks, her voice quieter now.

“Tomorrow. 10 AM. We’ll arrange your travel. You’ll receive a formal itinerary and briefing notice within the hour.”

A pause follows - long enough to feel deliberate.

“You have our attention, Miss Sinclair,” Greaves says. “Please understand that what you’ve started here could carry… significant implications.”

Her throat tightens.
Finally.
This is probably more than she thought she’d get, but she doesn’t flinch.
“Good,” she replies, her voice dry but sure. “That’s exactly what I intended.”
She wonders if her father, at some point in his career, may have gotten the same kind of call.

“Then we’ll see you in Washington.”

Click.
The line goes dead.
The quiet it leaves behind is deafening.

Erica lowers the phone, staring through the glass pane of her office windows at the city below.

Her reflection floats against the skyline, faint and ghostlike in the midday light, the sound of a police siren filtering through the fog in her mind.

No more appeals.
No more waiting for a reply.
She’s being summoned to the war room, not sure if she’s being invited to testify - or to be silenced.
Either way, she won’t be showing up empty-handed.


~~~

Well, this has gone way beyond Major Kendall, not sure if that's a good thing. This 'deal' with the African dictator is obviously important to somebody 'high up,' it might well have been at the dictator's insistence himself that Erica's father be disgraced. He, or a member of his inner circle may have suffered a somewhat personal defeat at Colonel Sinclair's hands.

Dear @LunaDog, if Erica will learn the full extent of this affair, I'm not sure about, but I guess she's not called onto the carpet of the State Department for nothing.
Stay tuned for tomorrow's episode.

Let's put it this way @Jenny_S The level of anticipation that i'm feeling right now is only normally matched when the Moto Grand Prix bikes are lining up on the grid!

Good Lord, dear @LunaDog. This is really putting pressure on me. You know that I try to deliver, but now I truly hope that I can.
Let's see how the story unfolds further.

The gym will have to wait.
Erica’s hand hovers over her cell phone, then withdraws as if she’s touched a hot wire.
Instinct kicks in, sharper than logic - don’t use that.

Not now.
Not after that call.

Instead, she digs into her handbag, fingers brushing past lip balm, a spare charger, and finally closing around the burner phone.
The cheap plastic is cold in her palm, somehow more real than the sleek rectangle resting in her pocket - the one that might be tapped.

She dials John Dance’s burner. It rings twice.

Click.

“Erica,” his voice comes through dry and low, like gravel shifting in a barrel.
No pleasantries.
Just recognition.

“John,” she breathes, her tone pitched somewhere between relief and urgency. “The wheels are turning. Finally. Someone from the State Department just called me. They want me in D.C. tomorrow. First thing.”

For a beat, there’s only the faint hiss of the line. Then, a low hum from Dance.
Ambiguous.
Alert.
Possibly amused.
“You really did poke the bear,” he says. “Told you, you’d rattle the cage. You just be careful when you go in there, Erica.”

“I will.”

“No. I mean it.” His voice sharpens. “That place will be crawling with more spooks than Langley on Halloween. Say less, let them talk.”

She nods, even though he can’t see her. “Understood.”

There’s a silence between them, heavy with things unspoken.
She breaks it with a wry smile.
“If I don’t check back in a few days… I might be on a long vacation in Guantanamo.”
Maybe this isn’t the break she hoped for.
Maybe it’s a trap dressed in a suit and tie.

Dance chuckles, a sound deep and uneven. “I’ll send a file in a cake.”

Erica’s smile softens. “Stay frosty, John.”

“You too. Catch you later.”

The line goes dead. And now, the clock starts ticking.


~~~


It’s still dark when Erica stands by the window in her living room, cradling a half-emptied mug of coffee.
The sky outside is deep blue, streaked faintly with the early signs of dawn.
In a few minutes, the sun will rise, slicing the skyline into gold-edged towers and long, fractured shadows.

The dial of her dive watch glows faintly. 5:30 AM.

She’s skipped her usual run.
The schedule in the itinerary said pickup at 6:15 sharp, and something tells her these people don’t deal in lateness.

Down on West 72nd Street, a garbage truck lumbers past, its hydraulics hissing in the silence.
The city is waking up slowly, unaware of what she’s about to step into.

Erica’s eyes drift toward the silver-framed photograph on her shelf.
Her parents.
A time before everything went sideways.
She was two years old when the picture was taken, a snapshot of warmth, of a life that was stolen piece by piece - first by her mother’s illness, then by her father’s death.
Her throat tightens.
She swallows hard.

Back to it.

She rinses her mug, places it neatly in the dishwasher, and moves into the bedroom.
Navy skirt suit. Crisp blouse. Low heels.
Everything deliberate.
Armor, more than outfit.

Her briefcase clicks open - inside are neatly arranged documents: copies of sworn affidavits, a USB stick with interviews, a notepad, pens.
Evidence.
Proof.
Memory.
Ammunition.

She gives herself one last glance in the mirror.
Her reflection is cool, professional.
Every line of her posture says: prepared.

At 6:10, a black SUV pulls up outside.
No markings.
Tinted windows.
The man who steps out is clean-cut, mid-40s, dressed like a government-issued mannequin.
He checks something on his phone, then looks up - right at her window.

Erica turns. The kittens are curled up in their usual spot by the air vent.
She leans down, brushing a gentle hand over Spot’s fuzzy ears. Tiger stirs and lets out a soft, groggy mewl.
“I’ll see you tonight, my lovelies,” she whispers. “Promise.”

And with that - she heads to war.


~~~


Outside, the driver opens the rear door with mechanical precision.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he says.
No idle chat. No unnecessary questions.
He’s not a cab driver. He’s a cog in a very specific machine.

They pull away, the SUV gliding silently over slick asphalt.
As they cross Triborough Bridge, the city shrinks in the rearview mirror.
Steel and glass falling behind like a discarded stage set.
Erica stares out the window, jaw clenched. There’s something in her chest - not panic, but a tightness.
Awareness.

Someone’s listening now. Someone’s watching. The stakes have changed.

At LaGuardia, they don’t head to the main terminal. Instead, the SUV turns into a side gate, where an armed guard checks credentials before waving them through.
No security lines. No baggage claim. Just runway.

A pale gray jet waits, sleek and silent under sodium lights.
No airline markings, just a tail number.

A second agent greets her - older, his face unreadable.
“Good morning, ma’am.” A nod, then a gesture to the stairs.
He opens the door, and Erica ascends without a word.

In the cabin she finds three passenger seats, leather-wrapped.
Comfortable yet precise.
The agent follows her in.
“You’ll be flying into Joint Base Andrews,” he says. “From there, a car will take you to the State Department.”
He offers a bottle of water and a plastic cup. “Please keep your belt fastened during the flight. We’ll be in the air no longer than 45 minutes.”

Erica takes the water. “Thanks.”
Then silence.

The door seals.
The cabin shifts.
The jet lifts, cutting upward into the pale sky like a blade.
There is no turning back now.
And deep in her chest, that hum starts again - louder now.
Not fear.
Not yet.
But pressure building.
Someone opened the door for her. And she is stepping through it.


~~~


About 40 minutes later, the jet banks gently, beginning its descent.
Through the window, the land unfolds like a strategy map - rows of roads, the grid of power.

Washington, D.C., rises ahead in the morning light.
Not a city, Erica thinks, but a coliseum. Like ancient Rome.
Every marble building, every flagstone plaza - an arena for polished combat.
Power isn't shouted here. It’s whispered, traded, bought in quiet hallways and unspoken debts.

Her fingers tighten slightly on the leather handle of her briefcase.
The weight of what she carries - on the USB stick, in the signed affidavits - is more than evidence.
For the powerful, it’s provocation.
It's a match held to a powder keg.

And then, without meaning to, her mind summons Professor Arthur Kingsley’s voice, that crisp, authoritative tone from Harvard lecture halls and long, wine-soaked conversations:
“It is not the critic who counts…”

Her lips move with it now, silent but certain:
“…not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better…”

She breathes in slowly, holding steady as the wheels touch down.
“…The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood…”

Arthur Kingsley always made them stand when reciting it aloud. Called it a liturgy for the brave.
And now she’s here.
Stepping into the arena, standing for something – for someone.
Someone special.


~~~


The turbines of the sleek jet spin down behind her, their dying whine replaced by a thin, breathy hiss that fades into the rainy hush of morning.
A low mist clings to the tarmac like a veil, softening the gray world around her.
Raindrops tap gently on the jet’s fuselage as Erica descends the metal stairs, the air smelling faintly of jet fuel and wet asphalt.

Waiting below is another black Suburban - all muscle and menace, tinted windows and a matte gleam that soaks up the pale daylight.
A man in a black suit and dark glasses stands beside it, arms folded behind his back, posture military-tight.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he says, and opens the rear passenger door with practiced courtesy.
There’s no badge on his lapel, no agency seal.
Maybe that’s answer enough.

Erica nods, her expression composed.
She doesn’t hand over the leather attaché case.
Instead, she slides into the back seat, adjusts the fall of her trench coat, and fastens the seatbelt with a soft click.

The Suburban pulls away from the flightline in silence, gliding toward an automatic gate that yawns open at their approach.
Outside the perimeter, the quiet evaporates.

Washington traffic hits them like a wall - thick, pulsing, chaotic. Honking, brake lights, chaos of urgency. D.C. in rush hour is a different beast than Manhattan.
More armored.
Less forgiving.

For a moment, Erica watches the stalled lanes with a flicker of doubt.
This is almost as bad as Mbeke city traffic. Will they even make it to the meeting on time?

The driver glances into the rearview mirror as if reading her mind. “The commute usually takes about 30 minutes,” he says, voice smooth, unreadable. “Today, obviously, it would take considerably longer.”
Then he flips a switch on the console.
Red and blue lights erupt from hidden panels.
A high-pitched siren wails to life.
Like parting a sea, the traffic shifts - reluctantly at first, then obediently. The lanes melt open.
“Not for us, though,” he adds, grinning without looking back. “Having a VIP aboard has its privileges.”
VIP, Erica echoes silently. As if the label might stick.

They cross the Potomac river with sirens screaming, the Suburban weaving past commuters and tourists alike.
Constitution Avenue blurs past - the Smithsonian, the austere monuments, the glass eye of the city always watching.
The White House flickers past behind its wrought-iron veil - majestic, distant, and utterly unreachable.
Just like the truth she came to dig out.

Her driver turns left onto 21st Street NW.
“They’re always building something,” he mutters, dodging cones and scaffolding. “But they never seem to finish anything.” A chuckle. “State Department covers two blocks. Fully undermined by parking, though. Real efficient.”

Erica offers only a tight smile.
The joke lands hollow.
Nothing here feels casual.

At the end of the drive, an armed guard in black fatigues steps forward and scans a badge through a security panel.
The barrier gate clanks open, and the Suburban descends into what feels like a bunker for giants - row after row of cement and steel, levels stacked deep into the earth. Cold fluorescent lights mounted to the low ceilings give an impression like this building had been created to withstand a nuclear war.

When they stop, the driver says, “An aide will escort you upstairs. I’ll be here when you're done.”
“When”, not if.
A sliver of reassurance.
Or theater.

At the elevators, a woman is already waiting - a redhead in her twenties with a spotless skirt suit and tablet in hand.
She greets Erica with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Mrs. Sinclair. Pamela Stevens. Mr. Greaves assigned me to assist you while you’re here. If you need anything, I’m at your service.”

The elevator doors slide shut behind them. The ascent begins.

“You’ll notice uniformed guards throughout the building,” Pamela says, voice breezy but controlled. “And, of course, plainclothes agents. That’s for your safety, as much as ours.”

A statement posed as hospitality.
But Erica feels the undertone - a subtle reminder of the forces at play.
Protection, or pressure?
It’s hard to tell where the line falls in a place like this.

When the elevator chimes open, they step into a hallway quiet as a tomb, lined in soft grey carpet and lit by recessed lighting.
Every footstep sounds too loud.
The walls are bare, anonymous, and unmemorable by design.
Miniaturized cameras seem to track every step.

Waiting there is another man in a black suit, hands folded, eyes unreadable.
“This way, please,” Pamela says, gesturing toward a discreet door. “You’ll have a private space to freshen up. We’ve reserved it for you. I know it was an early morning.”

Erica follows. The room beyond is cold and sterile, polished tile and chrome, like a surgical prep room disguised as a restroom.
Behind her, the man in the suit extends his hand. “Your bags, please.”

Erica raises an eyebrow. “The evidence is in the case.”

“No unsolicited devices in the meeting room, ma’am,” he says. “We’ll handle the materials.”
Whatever that means – probably that someone will be searching her handbag and scanning the data on her phone.

They surely must know that she is keeping several copies of the evidence: at home, the office and with John Dance.

Wordlessly, she opens her handbag and removes her phone, dropping it inside before reluctantly handing over both case and bag.
She watches the agent’s hands, steady and sure, as he receives them.
So it was a good idea to call Dance from the burner phone, but if someone would decide to make her disappear…
She stands alone for a moment as the door closes softly behind them.
In the mirror, she sees herself: clean lines, measured posture, unblinking.

The battle doesn’t start in the meeting room.
It starts here.

“…who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds…”

She doesn’t intend to err or come short but to strive valiantly to do the deeds – that’s the path she has always walked.


~~~

Game On!

Dear @LunaDog, tonight, she'll fight.
For her father and the men who gave their all to protect the Mekedde.

The conference room is windowless, tucked deep inside the stone heart of the State Department’s headquarters.
Its walls are a bureaucratic beige, the table a bland laminate rectangle - mid-sized, impersonal, but humming with quiet menace.
The air conditioning is arctic, too cold for comfort, perhaps intentionally so.
Erica pulls her blazer tighter around her shoulders, though she doesn’t shiver.
Her pulse is up although she forces herself to breathe slowly and to appear calm.

The tabletop is polished to a dull sheen, wired with embedded microphones and discreet recording devices that blink silently beneath the surface.
A sideboard against the wall offers coffee, tea, and soft drinks - a diplomatic courtesy.
Nothing here is casual.

Dominating the far wall, two flags cross like dueling blades - Old Glory and the blue-and-white seal of the Department of State.
Their presence is more than ceremonial. It’s territorial.
This is their arena.
And Erica is the outsider.

Pamela Stevens opens the door with a polite nod. “This way, please.”

Erica enters, her heels clicking softly on the industrial carpet.
She sees her attaché case already positioned at one of the chairs - like a nameplate that needs no introduction.
She walks slowly, deliberately, and takes her seat.
The chair is firm. It doesn’t invite you to stay long.
She doesn’t intend to anyway.

A staffer steps in, deposits two identical file folders on the table without a word, and leaves. Pamela remains by the door, tablet in hand, eyes cool and unreadable.
Sentinel or handler?
Erica isn’t sure.

Then another door opens with a subtle click.
Two people enter.

The man is late forties, lean and fit, with khaki slacks and a navy blazer.
His tie is striped, his shirt crisp, and his walk practiced - authoritative without arrogance - but a touch casual.
The woman beside him wears an Army dress uniform that gleams with decorations, her posture ramrod straight as if she doesn’t feel comfortable wearing the uniform.
However, both radiate the polished command of people who are used to being obeyed.

Pamela straightens subtly, like a soldier catching sight of a senior officer.

Erica stands.

The man crosses to her, hand outstretched. “Sam Greaves,” he says. “Chief of the Africa Division. We spoke briefly yesterday.”
His grip is firm.
His smile is not warm.

He gestures to the officer, who has already claimed a seat across the table and merely nods once, no smile, no pretense.

“This is Colonel Hartwell,” Greaves adds. “Liaison from the Joint Chiefs. I’m glad you could join us at such short notice, Miss Sinclair.”

Erica nods, her expression neutral - but her eyes don’t miss Hartwell’s glance at her watch. The gesture isn’t just about time.
It’s about value.
Hartwell already seems to doubt this meeting is worth her time and attention.

“Pam, would you take care of the coffee?” Greaves says without looking back.

Pamela springs into motion.
Three ceramic mugs, all emblazoned with the State Department seal, are filled in silence.
“These are the real ones,” Greaves remarks as Pamela sets them down. “Not the ones they sell downstairs in the gift shop.”
He grins, but Erica sees the subtext.

Everything here is real.
This isn’t a tour.
It might end up being a trial.

She stirs two packets of sweetener into her coffee. It smells like an expensive, artisan roast, but she barely tastes it.

“You have an impressive resume,” Greaves begins, flipping open one of the files.
The contents inside are neatly printed and tabbed. “The stunt you pulled to help get that Mexican cartel off the map… Honestly, you should’ve appeared on our radar a lot earlier.”

There it is.
The snake’s hiss in the grass.
Not an insult - just a quiet assertion of how far their reach extends.

Erica doesn’t respond.
She sips her coffee and watches him instead.

“And then there’s that email you sent to poor Major Kendall. Talk about letting a fox loose in a henhouse.”

Erica meets his gaze but doesn’t blink.
She’s not here to be impressed.

Greaves goes on.
“Our Department had no intention of revisiting the Mekedde affair of back then. But your email changed that.”

Before he can continue, a desk phone on the sideboard rings. A single shrill note.
Pamela picks it up, listens, then walks it over to Greaves. “For you, sir,” she says softly.

He accepts the receiver. “Greaves speaking.” Then - pause. His tone changes. “Yes, Mr. President. She’s here. Absolutely.”

For a second, everything stops.

Erica’s breath catches and her pulse skips a beat. The air feels thinner.
This isn’t just departmental cleanup - it is national choreography if the most powerful man in the Western hemisphere is involved.

Greaves nods once, signaling finality. “This will be handled appropriately, sir.”

Then the moment’s gone.
He hands the phone back to Pamela without another word, turns back to Erica, unfazed. “Some decisions about this matter weren’t made by the current administration. And certainly not by this Department.”

It’s artful, the way he speaks around the minefield - as if diplomacy is a dance choreographed in silence.

Erica tilts her head. “You mean declaring nine soldiers fallen in combat as traffic casualties?”

Hartwell’s mouth tightens. “Given the unsanctioned nature of that combat,” she says, her voice clipped and cold, “the classification made sense at that time. Colonel Sinclair violated direct orders.”

Erica’s heart pounds.
Rage flares just beneath her ribs.
“Colonel…” she begins, steel in her voice.

But Greaves lifts his hand. “Be that as it may, our administration doesn’t want this incident surfacing in the press. Our objective is to contain the fallout caused by what appears to be a decision made on incomplete or false information back in the day - and recently.”

“False?” Erica echoes, barely containing her scorn.

Hartwell snorts. “Looking at your files, Miss Sinclair, there’s no confirmation from our local asset in Ngabo yet. I could forge most of your “evidence” in under an hour.”

Something twists in Erica’s gut.
She’s lying.
Or maybe she’s not military at all.
Something about Hartwell doesn’t sit right.

Is she CIA?
DIA?
Whatever she is, she most likely belongs to some alphabet-soup spook organization.
And the “local asset” – that would be Cal Whitmore, dead in the jungle, not able to confirm anything.

Erica leans forward. “Including inventing the exact names of those nine dead soldiers? Soldiers whose dog tags were personally handed to me by Bishop Niyoyo in Mbeke?”
Her voice is cold fire.

Greaves’s tone sharpens. “We have orders to clean this mess up. That’s the mission today. We have to look forward.”
He fixes Erica with a steady, unreadable look.
“So, Mrs. Sinclair: the one-million-dollar question is - what do you want?”

There it is.
The crack in the surface she needs.


~~~

Erica meets Greaves’ gaze and lets the silence draw out - just long enough to make it clear she’s not here to be cowed.
Slowly, deliberately, she adjusts the cuff of her blouse. Her fingers graze the cool steel of the Rolex on her wrist, the words engraved on its back searing across her thoughts like a flare in the dark: “Stand for something or fall for anything.”

Her creed.

Her moral compass.

The promise she gave her father - herself - when he gifted her the watch on the day she graduated from Harvard Law School.

Her voice is calm when she speaks, but there’s fire beneath the surface.
She could ask for money.
Even lots of it.
But this isn’t what she is here for.

“I want my father’s name to remain unblemished.” She lets it land. “Rescind the accusations. Keep your hands off his record and his decorations. Let him rest in peace at Arlington.”
Strike One.

She doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch.
“If you listen to the interviews,” she continues, “you’ll hear how deeply he and his men are revered by the Mekedde people to this day. They’re not forgotten. They’re celebrated as heroes. Their graves are cared for. Flowers. Candles. Names etched into stone, not erased from it.”
Her eyes sweep across the table, from Greaves to Hartwell. “Now do the right thing. Tell the families of those nine soldiers that they didn’t die in traffic accidents. Tell them they fell while gallantly defending civilians from genocide.”
Strike Two.

Hartwell’s face twists with contempt. “Ridiculous. My agency will not support this… agenda.” she growls.

Erica doesn't flinch.
She locks eyes with her.
“Correct. Your position is absolutely ridiculous.” Her voice cuts like glass. “You think you can bury the truth? Think again. I won’t let you throw my father under the bus just because he can’t defend himself from your lies.”

She pushes back from the table - hard. The legs of the chair scrape loudly against the cold floor. Pamela Stevens twitches by the sideboard, shoulders tightening, hands folded too tightly on her tablet.
“Over my dead body,” Erica says and reaches for her briefcase.

~~~

Um. Interesting how Sam Greaves has made no reply to Erica's, very fair and reasonable, demands yet. Colonel Hartwell is shouting her mouth off but it's clear HE is the one with the power here. And he seems to be quite impressed with Erica. He also has the President's, the most powerful person in all of the U.S. approval to make a decision here. What will that be? Will justice and honesty prevail?

This has been a magnificent story right from the off. Thank you so much for allowing us to share it @Jenny_S

Dear @LunaDog, your compliment means so much to me. Thank you for being one of my most faithful readers.
You're right, Sam Greaves has done his homework on Erica and we learn that even the President is taking a swing at this affair. Maybe not in person, but through the State Department. This goes further up than Erica thought it would - to people who could bury her at the drop of a hat.

Jenny_S wrote: 1 week ago To people who could bury her at the drop of a hat.

For what though? Telling the truth?

Dear @LunaDog, she who speaks the truth should ride a fast horse. We'll find out tomorrow, though.
Hang on.

A long beat passes before Greaves speaks again, voice low and composed, but edged with something harder now - something real.
“Please sit, Mrs. Sinclair.”
She hesitates. Not out of fear - but calculation.

“Your investigation has raised questions that neither this Department - nor Mrs. Hartwell - are fully prepared to answer.” he says. “Regardless of what happened in 1994… today, Ngabo is an important partner in Africa for this administration. On multiple fronts.”
Greaves leans forward slightly.

“We cannot leave their resources to the Chinese. My agency does what is necessary to protect American interests,” Hartwell says.

And there it is.
The real arena.
Power.
Resources.
Geopolitical leverage.

Erica feels her stomach turn.
It’s always about money.
Influence.
Not people.
Never justice.

“However,” Greaves adds, and his voice softens just a touch, “righting what is wrong is on our agenda today. We just need your cooperation to get there, Mrs. Sinclair.”

Erica raises a brow. Her voice is level now - controlled but curious.
“Please explain, Mr. Greaves.”

He nods, then flips open the folder before him and slides out a stack of stapled pages. The top sheet bears the title in bold black letters:
NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT

“Standard form,” he says, casually. “I’ve already signed it, and I’m fully authorized to do so.”

He turns the papers and pushes them across the table, followed by a shiny black pen drawn from his inner blazer pocket.
It gleams under the fluorescent light.

“In short,” he says, “you get what you asked for: records corrected, honor restored. Nine families to be told the truth - privately. In return, we ask that your findings remain sealed. That this conversation stays in this room.”
Erica scans the pages.
Her legal brain kicks in automatically - language sharp, clauses clean, the language deceptively simple.
It’s designed to sound reasonable.
Binding without being aggressive.
The kind of agreement that’s been signed a thousand times before by people who traded truth for closure.

But this one… this one carries personal weight - for her and nine families she doesn’t even know.

They can’t control her digital files.
They know that.
So this is about trust as well.
Her word for theirs.

She exhales. A long, quiet release she didn’t even realize she’s been holding.
A breath days in the making.

The silence in the room stretches again. Greaves holds out the pen, still, steady.
Waiting.

The arena is silent now - but it’s watching.


~~~


Erica studies the document one last time, her eyes lingering on the paragraph that sticks out like a sore thumb.
Then, slowly and deliberately, she turns the NDA around and slides it back across the table to Greaves.
The gesture is quiet, but it lands like a dropped gavel.
“I’m not going to sign this,” she says.
Her tone is calm - almost casual - but the words ripple through the room like a shockwave.

Greaves’ expression hardens, though he doesn’t speak yet.

Hartwell, however, explodes.
“What the fuck…” she spits, rising halfway from her seat, face flushing red, her chair scraping back sharply.

Erica doesn’t even glance her way.
“...unless we strike this paragraph,” she says, tapping the offending section with a manicured nail. Her voice is cool as polished steel. “I’ll keep the dog tags and send them to the families myself. They deserve closure. And I reserve the right to tell them where their loved ones are buried.”

For a beat, no one moves.
The only sound is the faint humming of the air conditioner.

Hartwell stares at her like she might leap across the table any moment, barely restrained fury simmering in her eyes.
She clearly isn’t used to things not going her way.

But Greaves lifts a hand without looking at her - a silent command.

Sit.
Stand down.

He leans back in his chair, exhales slowly.
Calculating.
Measuring.
And then - he nods.
“Pam, have the NDA corrected so we can sign it,” he says.

Pamela Stevens - silent, but ever attentive - steps forward and collects the documents. “Of course, Mr. Greaves.” she says briskly, already halfway to the door.

“You’re letting her dictate terms? This won’t play well with my agency,” Hartwell guarantees.
The cat is fully out of the bag.
A soldier would have taken no for an answer, maybe grumble, but now Erica is sure that Hartwell is a CIA agent, just as Cal Whitmore – the local asset she mentioned earlier.

As the door shuts behind Stevens, the air in the room shifts.
Tension lingers, but the balance of power is different now.
Erica has claimed her space - and held it.

Greaves stands, smoothing down the front of his blazer. “Would you like another coffee, Mrs. Sinclair?”

Erica leans back, crossing her legs, hands folded in her lap with quiet poise.
“Please and thank you,” she says sweetly, as if they’re chatting in some D.C. café. “As long as it’s not poisoned.”

~~~

Erica played that situation beautiful. And Greaves was up to the task. Only Hartwell ended up with 'egg on her face.'

Dear @LunaDog, Erica has the evidence, Greaves the big gun backing him up and Hartwell is forced to accept the decision.
This might end well after all.

Jenny_S wrote: 1 week ago This might end well after all.

Yes, that's entirely possible now. From Erica's point of view, firstly her father's record is not to be officially blackened as it appeared at first. But since she went to Africa to see things for herself, she has another aim, to bring some truth and comfort to families of the brave soldiers who died, doing their duty under Colonel Sinclair's wise command. And, despite Hartwell's protestations, it appears that both of these aims may now be achieved.

Just a quick question, my friend. What exactly is Erica's marital status? It's just Greaves keeps addressing her as MRS Sinclair, but there's been no mention of any husband in any of your magnificent tales.