The light creeping through the curtains was pale and cold.
Reacher was already awake, standing by the window, arms crossed, watching the activity outside. Below, Fort Ironwood was alive with motion — engines rumbling, voices shouting orders, boots striking pavement in sharp rhythm.
Behind him, Finlay stirred, sitting up with a groan. A second later, Roscoe shifted, blinking against the early light.
Roscoe yawned, rubbing her eyes. "You've been up long?"
Reacher didn't turn from the window. "A while."
She frowned slightly, her voice still heavy with sleep. "Everything alright?"
He nodded once. "Something's happening."
That got their attention. Finlay swung his legs off the bed, pulling on his shirt, while Roscoe came up beside Reacher.
Outside, a convoy was forming — a JLTV with a mounted .50 cal at the front, followed by a Humvee, a troop transport truck, an armored police van, a patrol cruiser, and another Humvee with a .50 cal mounted bringing up the rear.
Dozens of soldiers and police officers were gearing up beside the vehicles — helmets secured, vests tightened, weapons checked. Among them, several police officers wore riot gear with riot shields in hand.
Finlay exhaled through his nose. "That's a lot of muscle. Guess that hostile group they mentioned finally showed their faces."
Roscoe nodded slightly. "Looks like it. Not sure for what else would they prepare all of this ."
Reacher watched silently for a moment longer before shaking his head. "No. This isn't that."
Roscoe glanced at him. "Then what?"
He pointed toward a few soldiers standing near the transport truck. "Their gear — the padding on the arms and legs. They wouldn't have to worry about them if they were fighting other people."
Finlay squinted. "You're saying…?"
"They're deploying to deal with the dead," Reacher said simply. "Too much protective gear and quiet enough firepower ."
He leaned slightly closer to the window, tracking the formation of the convoy. "With the number of people here, my guess is they're going to clear an area big enough to move civilians into — somewhere easier to defend aside of this place."
Roscoe followed his gaze, her voice low. "So, they're expanding."
Reacher nodded once. "Most likely."
The engines of the convoy roared to life, the vehicles beginning to roll toward the gates as the sun crept higher over the horizon.
The three stood by the window, watching the convoy roll through the front gates. The low rumble of engines faded as the vehicles disappeared down the main road.
For a moment, the room was quiet again.
Finlay exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. "Well… since the action's clearly somewhere else, maybe we should see about finding that mess hall the soldiers mentioned last night."
Roscoe stretched her shoulders, nodding. "Good idea. A warm meal sounds very appealing right about now."
Reacher didn't respond. He was still looking out the window, eyes following the empty road where the convoy had vanished.
After a few seconds, he turned away, wordlessly heading toward the door.
Finlay frowned. "What's with him?" he muttered, then raised his voice. "Hey, try waiting for us next time, huh?"
Reacher stopped at the doorway and glanced back. "I'll catch up later."
Finlay arched an eyebrow. "Yeah? Where're you going?"
"Need to make a call," Reacher said, reaching for the door handle.
Roscoe tilted her head. "A call? How exactly are you planning to do that? There's no power, no cell towers—no signal to call anyone."
Reacher looked at her evenly. "Satellite phone."
That earned him a skeptical look. "You really think you'll find one here?"
His hand tightened on the doorknob. "I do."
Without another word, he pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway, the sound of his boots fading as the door clicked shut behind him.
The hallway was quiet.
Reacher walked down its length, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. Most of the rooms were still dark — people still asleep after a night that, for once, was calm and uneventful.
He reached the stairwell and descended. On the lower floor, a few civilians moved sluggishly through the corridor, while a pair of police officers stood guard near the entrance, their conversation low and tired.
Crossing the lobby, Reacher spotted two soldiers moving toward the mess hall. Their fatigues were neat, eyes sharp despite the early hour.
Reacher stepped into their path.
"I need to talk to the officer in charge of the compound," he said plainly.
The soldiers exchanged a brief glance — his direct approach surprising them.
For a second they thought about just dismissing him, but Reacher's autoritative tone and his intimidating size, made them decide otherwise.
" Sure" one of them finally said. Turning towards the main entrance he continued."After you walk outside, take the path to the right and you'll see the command building. No way for you to miss it."
Reacher gave a single nod. "Appreciate it."
As the soldiers continued toward the mess hall, Reacher turned and headed in the opposite direction, towards the exit.
Reacher stepped through the main entrance of the hotel, the morning light spilling across the compound. The air was cool and sharp, carrying the distant hum of engines and smell of fuel.
He turned to the right — and immediately spotted the command building. It wasn't hard to identify.
Sandbags were stacked waist-high along the perimeter and the windows reinforced with metal bars. Two soldiers stood at the entrance, rifles slung across their chests, they were in the middle of a conversation while watching the surrounding area.
Reacher crossed the distance between the two building with steady steps, boots crunching lightly against the gravel. As he approached, both guards straightened, watching him close in with practiced suspicion.
He stopped a few feet from them.
"Major Jack Reacher," he said evenly, his voice carrying without effort. "I need to speak with your commanding officer."
The soldiers exchanged a quick glance — a flicker of uncertainty passing between them. The taller of the two nodded slightly, then turned and disappeared inside the building.
The one remaining outside shifted his grip on his rifle, his stance firm but respectful.
"We'll have to ask you to please wait here a moment, sir," he said.
Reacher gave a single nod and said nothing, his eyes sweeping over the fortified exterior — the radio antenna mounted on the roof, the sandbagged shooting positions, the faint smell of diesel and oil lingering in the morning air.
After few minutes the door to the command building opened with a muted creak. The same soldier who'd gone inside stepped out and motioned toward Reacher.
"All right… you're cleared to come inside. Follow m."
Reacher didn't respond, just nodded once and fell into step behind him, his quiet tread echoing faintly down the corridor.
The air was cooler here, carrying the faint scent of gun oil and paper. The hallway was narrow and well lit, lined with open doors that revealed a series of makeshift offices and storage areas.
As they walked, Reacher's eyes moved from room to room — taking in everything.
A opened door revealed stacks of crates and open weapon cases — rifles neatly racked, ammunition boxes labeled by caliber. The armory.
He noted it without breaking stride.
Further down, a pair of MPs passed by carrying a box of documents, giving Reacher a curious glance before moving on.
Finally, the soldier stopped in front of a reinforced door at the end of the hall.
He knocked once, then pushed it open. "Major Griggs, sir — the visitor you requested to see."
Griggs stood at a central table, a large map of Georgia spread before him, dotted with pins, notes, and radio call signs. The man looked up and spoke.
"At ease," Griggs said to the escorting soldier, then nodded toward the door. "You're dismissed."
The soldier gave a quick salute and stepped out, closing the door behind him.
For a brief moment, the room was quiet save for the hum of a generator somewhere outside.
Griggs straightened, turning to face Reacher fully.
"Major Griggs. U.S. Army Rangers," he said, his tone clipped but cordial. "I've been told you wanted to speak with me."
Reacher stepped forward, offering a faint nod in acknowledgment.
"Major Jack Reacher," he said. "U.S. Army Military Police — 110th MP."
Griggs studied him for a moment — eyes narrowing slightly as the name clicked. Then a short laugh escaped him, genuine but edged with disbelief.
"Jack Reacher," he said, shaking his head. "Now that's a name I didn't expect to hear again. I remember hearing about the drug bust your unit pulled off — damn fine work."
Across the room, a pair of communications operators shot quick glances in their direction before returning to their consoles. The steady crackle of radios filled the silence between words.
Griggs leaned back slightly, folding his arms. "I've got to say, Major, I'm surprised to see you here. After the 110th was disbanded, you just disappeared off the grid. No word, no trace."
Reacher's expression didn't change. "Just Reacher," he said flatly. "And I'm not here to be reinstated. I've got a personal matter to take care of."
Griggs nodded slowly, curiosity flickering behind his eyes. "Fair enough. You need any help with that personal matter?"
Reacher shook his head once. "Just need to make a call. You've got a satellite phone in here, right?"
Griggs blinked — then gave a small grin, impressed. "You really don't miss a thing, do you?" He reached over to the comms desk, picked up the bulky, satellite phone, and handed it over. "Here. Still functional ."
Reacher accepted the phone with a nod. "Appreciate it."
He tilted his head slightly, still studying Reacher. "Price mentioned you last night, actually. Said you've got a knack for reading a situation — and people — better than anyone he's seen."
Reacher didn't respond right away, his eyes shifting briefly to the wall map filled with colored markers and scribbled notes.
"I just pay attention to details," he said simply.
··············
The JLTV led the way down the cracked suburban road, its suspension groaning under the armor's weight. Behind it, the convoy rolled in tight formation .
Gaz stood in the gunner's hatch, one gloved hand resting on the .50 cal's grip. The wind tugged at his headset as his eyes fixed on the view ahead.
"Contact left — walls in sight," he called down.
Price leaned forward from the passenger seat, peering past the dust-coated windshield. The late morning sun cut long shadows across the road, catching on a set of tall brick walls that marked the boundary of a once-quiet neighborhood.
He keyed the radio clipped to his vest. "Convoy, this is Alpha Lead. We're approaching the Wiltshire Estate. Scouts are already on site. Stay tight and watch your spacing."
A series of acknowledgments came through the static — calm, professional.
As they drew closer, the main gate came into view — a wrought-iron archway with Wiltshire Estates spelled across the top in elegant, rusted lettering.
The gates themselves hung open, their hinges creaking gently in the breeze.
Below, a warped wooden sign leaned against the wall — the words scrawled in fading red spray paint:
ALL DEAD — DO NOT ENTER.
They stared at it for a moment before moving on.
Soap leaned out slightly from the rear seat, taking in the sight. " The place looks almost untouched," he muttered. "Creepy, that."
Ghost gave a low hum from beside him. "Too clean. Means whatever happened, happened fast."
The JLTV rolled to a stop just past the gate. A Humvee sat parked off to the side — the scouts' vehicle. Two soldiers stood nearby, rifles slung, waiting for them. One of them stepped forward and signaled.
Price pushed the door open and stepped out, his boots crunching on the gravel. The air was heavy with the scent of wet earth and distant decay.
Inside the gates, rows of houses stood untouched, shutters drawn, lawns overgrown but otherwise unmarked. A few cars sat in driveways, doors still open, as if their owners had stepped out only moments before and never returned.
Gaz called down from the turret, his voice tight with unease. "No barricades, no burned-out wrecks… looks like everyone just vanished."
Price gave a slow nod, eyes scanning the street ahead. "Aye. seems that way."
Ghost crouched near the road's edge, spotting something half-buried in the dirt — a faded children's backpack, its zipper rusted, colors bleached by sun and rain. "Or they didn't have time."
Price's gaze shifted toward the houses again. The quiet was unnerving .