Breanna stood, staring at the slammed door. No one knew of her failed mission. Not ever. Protocol dictated her arrest and accountability for the excessive loss of life. She would never have told David ever … but he had pushed, antagonising her until ... and now that he knew …

Her mind slammed closed at the thought of the consequences. Memory pushed to be seen from the back of her mind. No matter how hard she had tried, it had never come to the fore. Could she trust David enough not to hand her in?

She had felt his realisation as she spoke. What he said raced through her mind. The question haunted her, was she hiding, or was she running away? Breanna frowned, considering she may be throwing everything away because someone may have set her up had never come to mind. The possibility she may be blameless about what happened nagged at her mind, but until there was proof, there was no way of knowing. Could she clear her name?

The sound of slamming doors and raised voices, followed by a blood curdling, bone-chilling scream. Breanna's head snapped. Reaching the door, she pulled it open hard, not questioning why she was automatically responding to the sound of distress.

Racing down the passageway towards the stairs, she heard Tina pleading in the foyer below. Breanna jumped the last railing to the ground floor. Landing in the centre of the entrance in a crouch. She looked up as she rose to her full height, narrowing her eyes on the unfolding scene before her, anger rolling off her in waves.

Armed men in head to toe black swarming the foyer. Clio lay limply near the doorway. Tania, Oran and Cara did their best to protect Tina and her small, terrified group against the attacking group of militants.

"Enough," Breanna bellowed, her voice booming and bouncing off the walls, rattling the windows, bringing sudden silence.

The black-clad group turned in unison, looking directly at her. She waited. The closest armed man lifted his gun and aimed. Focussing all her anger skimmed her gaze over the offensive group before releasing a levelling mental punch that should put them out for days. The group wavered and crumpled to the floor.

"What is going on?" Michael asked as he came into the foyer.

Breanna looked up, her enraged gaze meeting the startled look of her brother.

"What have you done?" Michael whispered, "did you kill them?"

Breanna motioned for Oran to check the fallen man nearest him.

"No, she hasn't," he said, "she just knocked them out."

"Who are they, Michael?" she asked quietly.

"I would assume they are those agents that have been …," his words trailed off as he frowned. Moving forward, he looked at the bodies lying in the foyer, "but why are they armed and hooded?"

"Oran, the balaclava's," Breanna said quietly, not looking away from Michael. Cara moved forward, helping her brother. In moments the faces were revealed. Michael walked among them.

"I don't understand," he said, "why are a team of military black-ops been deployed here? Against your group?"

"Good question," Breanna folded her arms, "who leaked our location and that you have genetic freaks forming a tactical unit."

"Your team are not freaks," Michael retorted.

Breanna looked at Cara, standing very still, staring toward the door. Turning, Breanna gave a startled gasp. A tall, heavily muscled man in a camouflage uniform stood in the doorway.

"You took out my team of highly skilled operatives," he said as if he asked for a cup of tea. "I heard there was a houseful of genetically modified humans living with one of our military science commanders," he nodded to Michael. "I had to see what these people were capable of before they were deployed in the field."

"Who are you?" Breanna asked, glaring at the newcomer, "who says you will be deploying any of us in the field."

"Come now, Breanna," he smirked, "surely you don't think I'm going to allow you to run another tactical unit, especially after the last time."

Breanna stared at the man, her ability going out to taste the aura around him, he knew something, but she didn't know if it was the truth. She could feel evil. Pure evil.

"At least one of us knows what happened to them," she refused to be intimidated, "would you care to elaborate on the details?"

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"Nice try, Breanna," he snarled, "you will not be doing anything but going to a prison cell."

His voice. The way he spoke. Something about him. A flash of white lit behind her eyes. She remembered arguing, disagreements, refusal to follow a command, the following threat of what would happen if the order was not obeyed. She focused on the face. It matched the man in front of her. In her memory, that face and voice had demanded her complete compliance with the order she disagreed with and should have refused to do. He had ordered compliance with what she had lived with for years. This monster knew the truth of what had happened to her team.

"That will not be happening," Clio spoke as she rolled up from the floor.

Hold him, Cara's voice whispered through Breanna's mind.

Quickly Breanna mentally grasped the man before he could move toward Clio. Suddenly Fiona appeared holding her ears, heading for the man. Clio reached him and placed her hand on his forehead as Fiona reached for the necklace hanging around his neck hidden under his uniform. Oran pulled his gun, aiming it at the man, and Scott walked down the stairs wearing track pants and holding a drink as if he had come out of a shower.

"Who is he, Clio?" Breanna asked

"Commander Ashton Smith," she said, "he was there the day your team was taken out. He works with Darcia ..." Fiona pulled the necklace from around his neck and dropped it into Scott's drink. The green fizz had Scott placing the glass on a nearby dresser with an expression of distaste,"… did work for Darcia," Clio corrected. "Your previous team were all sold off to Darcia as "volunteers". He pocketed the money. It's not the first time he has done it, and it wasn't the last."

Clio stepped back from Commander Smith as his eyes fluttered closed and he sagged to the floor. Clio watched the body fall before lifting her head and staring at Breanna, understanding and sympathy in her eyes. Silence hung in the room like a funeral shroud.

"Secure them," Micheal said to Oran and Scott while securing the Commander and pulling his phone from his robe pocket and making a call.

Oran and Scott secured the assault team. Breanna stood silently. Breathing. The man on the floor knew what had happened that day. He knew where her team were. Why had she been allowed to believe they were dead and at her order? Closing her eyes tightly, she realised the only explanation she could come up with after what they had all heard from Clio.

Darcia.

It hurt that she had been allowed to hate herself all these years for something she hadn't wanted to do, nor had she been responsible. Moving toward Tina and her group Breanna motioned for the others to gather.

"I think until the bodies are cleared away, and Michael has done whatever required," Breanna indicated the mess behind her, "we get some rest and chat tomorrow."

Muttered agreements rippled through the group as they moved toward the stairs. The most frightened in Tina's group turned back, surprising Breanna with a hug. Gently returning the hug, Breanna waited.

"Thank you," her voice whispered, "thank you for protecting us. The past is the past. What you do now matters."

Then she was gone. Moving quicker than Breanna could track to join her group halfway up the stairs.

"Where are they going, Bre?" Michael asked.

"I sent them to bed," she said, "sorry about the mess."

"When did you lose your team?" Michael stared at her, "why didn't you tell me about it?"

"Would you have said anything if you believed you were solely responsible for everyone's death but your own?"

"Probably not," he sighed, "when Breanna?"

Breanna shifted uncomfortably, "Seven years ago," she whispered, "just before I woke up in Darcia's facility."

"You weren't going to take the position to run this unit were you," Michael folded his arms, "why do I get the feeling you still aren't?"

"Frankly, I think there are better people for the job," Breanna said, glancing at Scott's glass on the nearby dresser." I'll put it before them in the morning and let them decide who my replacement is. I wouldn't blame them if they didn't trust me."

"I think they do," Michael said, looking upward and over her head.

Turning, Breanna found everyone, including a panting, sweaty David, on the stairs staring at her.

"In true style, we seem to leave the deciding until the morning," Michael said to the room at large, "however, I think this can be done quickly and before my clean team gets here. Does she or does she not run your tactical unit?" Michael said loud enough for everyone to hear.

"She does."

"Won't do it without her."

"Absolutely."

The words rippled together and over each other. The unanimous vote of confidence from this group of people sat deep in her heart, tightening her throat with emotion she could not adequately express.

"Fantastic," Michael clapped his hands together, "easy thing to sort out. Now fearless leader off to bed. I have a mess to clean up."

Unknown location – an underground facility

Silence from one of her long-standing operatives wore on her nerves. She had given Breanna's location to him. She should have heard of their capture by now and the expectant delivery soon. Time ticked as she waited, snarling at the clock as it ticked past the time she expected to receive her specimens.

"Darcia," a fanatic ran toward her, "I was able to get this from the entry logs I piggybacked."

Taking the sheet of paper from the nervous man, Darcia read quietly before crumpling it into a tightwad in her fist.

"Leave," she growled.

The man ran from the room as her anger rose. Breanna had escaped her capture. Instead of welcoming her home, an opportunity and time had been lost ... again.

"Is the facility ready?" she ground out.

"Yes," the reply whispered in the silent room.

"Good," Darcia smiled coldly, "time to let Breanna know I'm still here."

Walking from the room, absorbed in her own thoughts of victory and success and the knowledge that she needed to only keep moving forward toward her goal.

Three men working silently at the back of the control room glancing between each other, slight nods of silent agreement unnoticed by others engrossed in ordered preparations.