In the locked weapons rack behind the armory cage, my M210 service rifle sat in its steel slot, tagged with an orange chamber safety flag and ready for morning inspection.

Captain Holt came down the narrow aisle with his clipboard tucked under his arm.

“Your leave paperwork is locked into the system, Madison, but the tactical order outranks ordinary leave,” Holt said.

“If you walk out of the base briefing at eight forty-five to make Main Street by nine, you’ll be under active mobilization orders.”

“I’ll be at the courthouse at nine o’clock,” I said.

“Bradley Collins is an expensive courtroom lawyer,” Holt said, watching me carefully.