Chapter 3

The bus ticket to Washington D.C. took most of what was left of Dad' s insurance money.

I packed a small bag: a change of clothes, Dad' s cased Medal of Honor, and his neatly folded dress blues.

David was stable, but the doctors were worried about infection in his wrist. The threat from Rizzo Sr. about having him discharged echoed in my head.

"I have to go, Davey," I whispered to him while he slept fitfully in the hospital bed. "I have to try."

He mumbled something, his face tight with pain even in sleep.

The bus ride was long, eighteen hours of watching the country blur past, my stomach churning with anxiety and a sliver of wild hope.

What if they laughed at me? What if they turned me away?

But what if they didn't?

I arrived in D.C. exhausted, grimy, and scared.

The Pentagon. It was huge, imposing. A fortress.

I stood at the main gate, clutching the case with the Medal of Honor.

A young Marine guard, corporal stripes on his sleeve, approached me. "Can I help you, ma'am?"

My voice was trembling. "My father... he was Sergeant Major Michael Carter. He earned this." I held up the case, my hands shaking so much I could barely keep it steady.

"His son, my brother, he's... he's badly hurt. Some powerful men in my city... they hurt him. The police, the lawyers, they won't help. They're all...corrupt."

Tears streamed down my face. I couldn't stop them.

"I don't want the medal," I choked out. "I want my father back. Or... or for his brothers-in-arms to help us. Please."

The corporal' s eyes were fixed on the Medal of Honor. His expression changed. The professional mask softened.

He exchanged a look with another guard.

"Sergeant Major Michael Carter?" the second guard, a sergeant, asked. His voice was respectful. "The one from 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines? Fallujah?"

"Yes," I whispered. "That was him."

A legend. Dad was a legend in his unit. I hadn't fully grasped how much until now.

The sergeant looked at me, then at the medal. "Ma'am, please come with us."

They didn't treat me like a crazy person. They treated me with a quiet dignity.

They escorted me inside, through corridors that felt miles long.

To an office with a two-star flag outside.

General Miller.

He was in his fifties, steel-gray hair, eyes that had seen too much but still held a spark of fierce intelligence. He looked up as we entered.

The sergeant announced, "General, this is Sarah Carter. She's Sergeant Major Michael Carter's daughter."

General Miller stood up. His eyes widened slightly when he saw the Medal of Honor case I still clutched.

"Sarah? Michael's girl?" He came around his desk. "I... I lost touch after your mother passed. I am so sorry."

His voice was kind, but there was a deep well of command beneath it.

"General," I began, my voice still shaky, "my brother David... he's in the hospital. He was attacked."

I told him everything. The Rizzos, the apartment, David's injuries, the police, the threats, the online smear campaign, Frank Rizzo Sr.'s call.

As I spoke, General Miller' s face hardened. His eyes, which had been kind, now glinted with a cold fury.

When I finished, the silence in the room was heavy.

"They did this to the son of Michael Carter?" His voice was dangerously low. "To the family of a man who saved my life?"

He picked up his phone. "Get me a line to Walter Reed. Now."

He looked at me. "Sarah, your brother is being transferred to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. He'll get the best care in the country. No one will touch him there."

Relief washed over me, so strong I nearly buckled.

"And then," General Miller said, his jaw tight, "you and I are flying back to your city. With a few of my people. It's time these... Rizzos... learned what it means to disrespect a hero's family."

He wasn't just a General. He was my father's friend. And he was angry.

For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe.