When HEROES don't come HOME

Chapter Seven – The Watchers

The park was almost empty that morning. The rain had passed hours before, leaving the air sharp and metallic, puddles scattered across the cracked paths. Birds pecked in the grass, oblivious to the three men sitting on the worn benches. To anyone watching, they looked like strangers who had chosen the same space.

But they were not strangers.

Colonel Richard Hudson stood beneath a skeletal oak, his overcoat buttoned high against the wind. His posture was as crisp as on parade ground, yet his eyes moved constantly, scanning every angle of the park: mothers pushing strollers, a runner stretching against the fence, the distant sound of a dog’s bark. Every detail filed, measured, cleared.

Across from him, on the opposite bench, sat two soldiers in plain clothes. Their haircuts betrayed them—too clean, too even. Private Morales chewed the inside of his cheek. Corporal Anders tapped one heel against the gravel, restless. Both looked younger than the burden they were about to carry.

Hudson stepped forward, the oak shadow falling across his boots. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“You will watch them,” he said.

Neither man asked who. They already knew. The widow. The parents. The ripples of Daniel Carter’s death.

“Follow, but do not confront,” Hudson continued. His words were precise, cut from stone. “She must not know yet. They must not feel the net tightening. Observe. Record. Report.”

Morales nodded quickly, eager to obey. Anders hesitated, his jaw tight. “Sir, are we cleared for—”

Hudson’s stare cut him off. “You are cleared for surveillance, Corporal. Including electronic. Her home, her phone, her car. Her parents’ residence as well.”

Anders swallowed hard. “Understood.”

Hudson took one step closer, enough that they could see the silver at his temples glint in the weak sunlight. “This is not busywork. She is restless. Grief makes people reckless. She has already challenged me once. If she starts digging deeper—if she reaches the wrong hands—we all bleed.”

Morales straightened. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Hudson let the silence stretch, holding them inside it until their fidgeting stilled. “Do not underestimate her. A medic, a soldier, and now a widow with nothing to lose. Sometimes those are the most dangerous.”

He let the words hang before stepping back. “Go.”

The two men rose, their plain jackets catching the wind. They didn’t salute; not here. They left in different directions, vanishing into the park’s geometry of paths.

Hudson stayed behind, pulling a phone from his pocket. The device was secure, encrypted, routed through channels only a handful of men understood. He dialed.

It rang once. Twice. Then a voice: smooth, professional, female. “HelixCore Industries.”

“This is Colonel Hudson,” he said. “Put me through to Crawford.”

A pause. Then the line clicked, and another voice replaced hers—deep, confident, accustomed to boardrooms rather than barracks. “Colonel.”

“Crawford,” Hudson said. He looked out across the park as though his words were carried by the wind itself. “Your time is almost gone.”

On the other end, a low chuckle. “Progress takes time, Richard. You know that better than anyone.”

“I don’t have time,” Hudson snapped, his control cracking just enough to reveal the steel beneath. “I no longer have bodies to feed your trials. I cannot conjure soldiers from air. You promised efficiency. You promised results.”

Crawford’s tone cooled. “And you promised cover. Which we’ve had. No oversight, no interference. That comes at a cost.”

Hudson’s jaw clenched. “Costs are nothing if we succeed. But you’re still inside labs, chasing hypotheticals. I need solutions I can deploy. Now.”

“We are close,” Crawford said smoothly. “The serum is stable in controlled environments. The problem is the human variable.”

Hudson’s hand tightened on the phone. “Then remove the human variable. Find another way to measure efficacy. Models. AI. Anything. But stop asking me for soldiers to burn. Those days are finished.”

Silence hummed on the line. Finally, Crawford’s voice dropped to a murmur: “We will adapt. But adaptation requires patience. Can you give us that?”

Hudson’s eyes swept the park again. A mother lifted her child from the swing, oblivious. A jogger passed, earbuds sealing him from the world. Hudson’s voice was cold when it returned. “You have one month. After that, no amount of science will save you.”

He ended the call without waiting for a reply.

The phone felt heavier in his hand, as though carrying not circuits but consequence. He slid it back into his coat and walked toward the edge of the park, boots sinking briefly into the soft earth before striking pavement again.

His car waited, black and discreet, the driver silent. Hudson entered, sat back, and let the city slide past the tinted windows. Steel and glass, stone and shadow. This was his battlefield now.

The vehicle slowed at a block-long building of gray stone—the Ministry of Armed Forces. The flag at its roof snapped in the wind. Hudson stepped out, returning salutes without breaking stride. Inside, marble floors reflected cold light, corridors swallowed his steps.

He moved with purpose, past doors marked with names of divisions: Procurement, Strategy, Intelligence. Finally: NCIS – Naval Criminal Investigative Service.

The guard at the desk stiffened as Hudson approached. Hudson showed his ID; the guard barely glanced before unlocking the inner door. Hudson passed through, each stride carrying him deeper into the hive where truth was dissected and rewritten.

Agents moved briskly in the open office beyond, phones to ears, files in arms, the smell of stale coffee rising. Hudson’s eyes caught one man in particular—Agent Lawson, the one assigned to Carter’s case. The man’s shoulders were hunched, his face weary, but his eyes darted with the guilt of someone already in over his head. Hudson noted it, filed it away. Weakness could be useful.

He did not stop. He moved toward the private offices at the end of the hall, where glass walls and closed blinds shielded conversations that shaped futures. His hand brushed the folder under his arm—the one stamped with both the Army’s crest and HelixCore’s discreet insignia. A folder that weighed more than any weapon.

When he reached the door, he paused only long enough to smooth his jacket, to ensure every line of his posture was unyielding. Then he entered, and the door closed behind him with the soft inevitability of a lock.