Chapter 1: The High Beams of Hell

Chapter 1: The High Beams of Hell

The rhythmic thrum of the engine was a familiar lullaby, the only sound accompanying Sergeant Jack "Hawk" Riley as his old Ford Bronco cut through the inky blackness of the base. It was just past midnight. The air inside the truck was stale with the lingering ghosts of the day—the sharp, metallic tang of gunpowder, the acrid bite of CLP solvent, and the faint, earthy scent of the rifle range baked into his woodland MARPAT utilities by a relentless Carolina sun.

He was tired. The kind of deep, bone-weary exhaustion that came from spending fourteen hours on your feet, shouting over the crack of M16s, and meticulously drilling the fundamentals of marksmanship into the skulls of recruits who barely knew which end of the rifle the bullet came out of. But it was a good tired. An honest tired. The kind of tired that meant the job was done right. All he wanted was his rack at the Staff NCO barracks, a few hours of dreamless sleep, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing he was turning boys into Marine riflemen.

The road stretched out ahead, a lonely ribbon of asphalt cutting through miles of pine forest and swamp. The yellow sodium-vapor lamps, spaced a hundred yards apart, did little to push back the oppressive darkness, creating long, distorted shadows that danced at the edge of his vision. This was the spine of the base, a deserted artery connecting the sprawling training areas to the main cantonment. At this hour, he was the only soul on it.

Or so he thought.

A flicker of light in his rearview mirror caught his eye. Distant, but approaching fast. Probably some lieutenant in a sports car, late for a rendezvous or just enjoying the empty roads. Hawk held his speed steady at the posted forty-five miles per hour. He was a Sergeant of Marines, a Primary Marksmanship Instructor. Rules and regulations weren't just his job; they were coded into his DNA.

The headlights grew in the mirror, two brilliant white orbs swelling with alarming speed. They belonged to something big, a truck by the look of it, sitting high off the ground. It closed the distance until it was right on his bumper, the glare from its headlights flooding his cab and erasing the shadows.

Hawk’s eyes narrowed. He flicked his rearview mirror to the night setting, the harsh glare dimming to a manageable green. He kept his hands steady at ten and two, his foot firm on the accelerator. No brake-checking. No games. Just maintain speed and bearing. Professionalism was a shield.

Then, the truck’s high beams flashed on.

The cab was blasted with light so intense it was like a physical blow. It punched through the mirror’s dimming function, reflecting off every surface, turning the windshield into a blinding white sheet. Hawk squinted, his vision momentarily stolen. His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.

This wasn't an accident. This wasn't some kid who forgot to dim his lights. This was deliberate. A provocation.

His mind, trained to assess threats in fractions of a second, began cycling through the possibilities. A drunk driver? Unlikely to be this precise, this aggressive. A local looking for trouble? Possible, but stupid to try it on a federal installation patrolled by Military Police.

The truck stayed glued to his bumper, its high beams burning into the back of his skull. He could feel the vibration of its massive engine through his own chassis. It was a predator, toying with him. Hawk’s jaw tightened. A slow, cold anger began to uncoil in his gut, but he kept it locked down. Panic was a luxury he couldn't afford. Reaction was what the other driver wanted.

He focused on the painted white line at the edge of the road, using it as his guide through the blinding glare. Mile after desolate mile, the harassment continued. The truck would occasionally swerve, its headlights dancing wildly in his mirrors, a clear and undeniable act of intimidation.

Let him pass, Hawk thought. Just go around, you son of a bitch.

But the truck didn't pass. It stayed right there, a malevolent presence latched onto him. This was a game of chicken, a test of will on a deserted stretch of government asphalt. And Hawk Riley did not lose tests of will. He would drive at exactly forty-five miles per hour all the way to his barracks if he had to. He would not give this asshole the satisfaction of a reaction.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the truck dropped back.

The high beams clicked off. The blinding pressure on the back of his head vanished. Hawk blinked, his vision swimming with green and purple spots. In his rearview mirror, the truck had fallen back a hundred yards, its headlights now just normal pinpricks in the darkness.

A surge of relief, sharp and immediate, washed over him. Maybe the driver got bored. Maybe his exit was coming up. Hawk let out a slow breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, his shoulders slumping slightly. The tension of the last five minutes began to drain away. It was over.

That was his first mistake.

From the grill of the now-distant truck, a supernova of red and blue light erupted, strobing violently in the darkness and painting the surrounding pine trees in frantic, flashing hues.

The sound of a siren split the night. Whoop. Whoop.

Hawk’s blood ran cold.

MP. Military Police.

The realization hit him like a round to the chest plate. It wasn't a drunk. It wasn't a local. It was one of them. The entire thing—the tailgating, the blinding high beams, the aggressive driving—had been a deliberate, calculated trap. They were trying to bait him into speeding, into driving erratically, into giving them an excuse.

A cold, hard fury, more potent than any fear, settled in his stomach. This wasn't about public safety. This wasn't about enforcing the law. This was a power play. A shakedown.

With practiced calm, he signaled, slowed, and pulled his Bronco smoothly onto the gravel shoulder. He put the truck in park, killed the engine, and then, by the book, turned on his interior dome light. He placed his hands on top of the steering wheel, in plain sight. He did everything a seasoned NCO was supposed to do.

He waited.

Through the side mirror, he watched the MP truck park behind him, its emergency lights bathing his vehicle in a pulsing, accusatory glow. A door opened, and a silhouette emerged. Even from a distance, Hawk could see it. The figure wasn't moving with the crisp, professional bearing of a Marine NCO conducting official business. There was a swagger in the walk, a cocky roll of the shoulders.

This wasn't a traffic stop. It was an ambush. And as the footsteps crunched on the gravel, growing louder as they approached his window, Sergeant Hawk Riley understood with perfect, chilling clarity that his long day was very far from over.