“He saved my life,” the colonel says abruptly, his voice distant, like he’s watching a memory unfold in front of him. “In ‘73. Northern border. He dragged me out of a minefield, took a hit himself doing it. Refused treatment until I was safe. I never saw him again after that.”
My breath catches. Grandpa never talked about the war. Not really. He mentioned “the desert” once or twice. Sometimes I’d hear him yelling in his sleep. But this? A minefield? Saving people? None of it ever made it into his stories.
I nod. “Yeah. He raised me. After my parents died.”
The colonel looks at me for a long second, then stops walking. “You need to come with me.”
“What? Where?”
He pulls a small leather wallet from his coat, flashes a badge. Not police. Military intelligence. The real kind. The kind you don’t see on TV.
“I can’t explain it here,” he says. “But that medal—you shouldn’t be wearing it. Not unless you’re ready.”
“Ready for what?” I ask, heart pounding.
He gives me a look that chills me to the bone. “To finish what your grandfather started.”
I want to laugh. I want to say this is insane. But something in me—the part that always felt Grandpa had secrets, the part that never quite believed he was just a quiet old man who liked gardening—starts to hum with energy.
Continue reading…
