He stared at the engraving. D. Carter – Unit 7A – Recovered. The words didn’t make sense. He’d never served, never joined anything close to the military.
The woman’s voice echoed faintly through the shattered radio on his dash: “Extraction complete. Target memory unstable. Proceed to containment.”
He touched his temple. A thin smear of blood streaked his fingertips. Head wound—or something else?
He looked up at the horizon, and that’s when he noticed the second truck parked on the opposite shoulder—identical to his.
