The cafeteria was packed wall-to-wall, filling the massive concrete space with a hum of low voices, scraping metal chairs, and the heavy aroma of dark roast coffee. Because today's briefing covered off-site perimeter security and upcoming operational windows, every off-duty Reaper had been called in—including the regional crews who didn't live on the compound full-time.
I stood near the coffee station on the far side of the room, leaning back against the stainless steel counter with a warm mug in my hands. I wore my dark tactical pants and a tight black tank top, feeling the steady eyes of dozens of heavily armed men tracking my every movement. But the tension from yesterday was gone; the squad from the pool exchanged brief, respectful nods with me as they filed in.
The low chatter died
