“Take Her Out,” My Cousin Ordered—But The Mercenaries Were Terrified The Moment They Saw Me…
My name is Dana, and I am thirty‑eight years old. To my family—the illustrious Roman dynasty of Seattle—I’m nothing more than a stain on their reputation, a failure who “wastes her life” turning wrenches in the U.S. Army while they close million‑dollar deals in glass towers downtown.
But they didn’t know the truth. When the solid oak door of the mountain cabin my grandmother left me exploded inward on a Colorado winter night, shattered by a breaching charge, my hand didn’t even shake. Viper, the budget‑cut mercenary my cousin Julian hired to evict me, expected to find a weeping, terrified woman begging for mercy.
Instead, through the settling dust and smoke, he found me sitting comfortably in my high‑backed leather armchair, taking a slow sip of black coffee. A heavy‑caliber sniper rifle rested casually across my thighs. When the beam of his tactical light swept over the patch on my chest—the eagle clutching the lightning bolt—I watched his pupils dilate in absolute, primal terror.
My cousin thought he was kicking a poor relative out of a rundown shack. He didn’t realize he had just declared war on a tier‑one operator from Joint Special Operations Command, right here on American soil. If you believe you should never judge a book by its cover, especially when that “book” knows more ways than you can count to neutralize a threat before it even enters the room, you’re in the right place.
The wind howling through the Colorado Rockies has a specific sound. It’s a low, mournful moan that rattles the pine trees and strips the warmth from anything living. It’s the kind of cold that settles into your bones and reminds you of your own mortality.
Most people find it terrifying. I find it clarifying. I sat in my grandfather’s old leather armchair, the only light in the room coming from the dying embers in the stone fireplace.
On my lap lay a copy of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations. I’ve read it a hundred times, mostly in the back of transport planes over Syria or in dugouts in the Korengal Valley. Page forty‑two.
Be like the cliff against which the waves continually break; but it stands firm and tames the fury of the water around it. Stoicism isn’t just a philosophy for me. It’s a survival mechanism.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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