Page 54 of Flashover

The man standing in front of me looks carved from the same rock as the ridgeline—lean, solid, and sun-scorched. Tactical gear, dusty boots, aviators pushed up into black hair. His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms threaded with old scars and new tension. Blackstrike. Has to be. And he’s looking at me like I’m the anomaly.

“Dr. Camille Rhodes?” he asks, voice rough like the gravel under our feet but smooth enough to stick.

“That’s me,” I reply, shielding my eyes against the sun. “And you are?”

“Rafe Maddox. You’re my problem now.”

Charming. “I wasn’t aware I’d been promoted to ‘problem.’”

He doesn’t smile, but something flickers behind his eyes. “You’re camped too close to an active hot zone. My team’s sweeping Vault Omega before nightfall. If you’re here when it blows, I’m the one pulling archaeologist pieces out of a crater.”

I square my shoulders and meet his gaze. “We’ve been here for four days, mapping fault fractures and scanning for subterranean chambers. No breaches. No instability. Unless you’ve triggered something.”

His brow rises. “You think we’re the reckless ones.”

“I think someone should be asking what’s under the basalt before they start planting demolition charges.” I reach into my satchel and pull out the shard I’ve carried since childhood—obsidian veined with silver and marked with the same sigil found on the scorched vault doors. I hold it out. “This symbol is carved into three of the rock faces below us. Identical to the Vault Sigma breach in Nevada.”

Rafe takes it carefully, fingers brushing mine for a second too long. Heat flares—not just from the sun—and my breath hitches despite myself.

He turns the shard under the light. “Where’d you get this?”

“Cornwall. Found it in a sea cave when I was eight.” I pause, watching his reaction. “It’s why I do what I do.”

He studies the piece, then me. “Most kids find fossils or shells. You found a classified sigil tied to a fire-fused alloy and buried war caches. Lucky.”

“Or cursed,” I murmur. “Depends who’s digging.”

Rafe nods toward a mobile command tent half a field away, where satellite dishes glint and solar panels hum. “Come walk me through your scans. If you’re right about this symbol, Command needs to know before we drill.”

I hesitate—then follow, keeping pace as he strides back across sunbaked earth. The wind kicks up dust devils around our boots.

“So,” he says, glancing sideways, “you really believe the ash vaults are connected? That they’re not just geological flukes?”

“They’re not flukes,” I say, pulling a folded map from my satchel. “Every site sits on a line of fire-formed glass andresidual magnetic anomalies. Vaults Sigma, Tau, Epsilon—all part of a containment network.”

“And what exactly are they containing?”

I stop walking. Let him see I’m serious. “Something old enough to scare us. And smart enough to bury itself.”

The air between us changes—not hostile, just charged, as if the sand still holds the memory of fire.

Rafe watches me a beat too long. Then he hands the shard back and jerks his chin toward the ridge. “You’re skating on thin ice, Dr. Rhodes. But you’ve got fifteen minutes to convince me you’re more than an academic with a death wish.”

I take the shard, slot it carefully into its pouch, and smile despite the tension clawing at my gut. “You’ll want more than fifteen.”

His grin finally breaks through—quick, sharp, entirely unexpected. “We’ll see.”

As we make our way to the command tent, the wind catches a new direction—and behind us, the ridge releases a low, hollow groan. Stone moaning under pressure—the first warning.

Still, I don’t look back.

Because whatever’s buried beneath the Dragon’s Spine? I think it knows we’re coming.

Rafe Maddox, Cami Rhodes and the rest of the Blackstrike Unit will return with Scorched Earth.

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