To defuse the bomb strapped to the hostage, I had no choice—I cut off all her clothes.

My clueless new wife, Dana Poole, blasted it online.

She cried as she faced me. "Why not at least leave her underwear on? You were saving her, I get it—but did you have to take everything? Doesn't a girl's dignity matter? With cameras everywhere, how is she supposed to live after this? You couldn't even cover her up?"

The backlash exploded. The unit benched me to calm things down.

So I stopped caring. I followed procedure, no improvising, no extra effort.

Then one day, at the busiest mall in the city, Dana's mom got strapped into a brand-new linked bomb.

This time, the whole unit panicked.

Cole's POV

"Cole Chadwick! Look what you did!"

The second I stepped inside, Dana Poole, my newly-wedded wife, rushed me, phone clutched tight, eyes glossy.

On the screen—a shot from the scene. Me ripping open the hostage's clothes. Cropped just right. Twisted.

"My friends keep asking how my husband could strip a girl in front of everyone. What am I supposed to say? You embarrassed me."

Her voice shook, full of blame.

I shrugged off my jacket, stiff with soot and sweat. "It wasn't a normal bomb. Wires and pressure sensors covered her whole body. If I didn't remove her clothes, I couldn't do my job."

"Then why not at least leave her underwear on?" Dana broke down. "I get you were saving her, but what about her dignity? There were cameras everywhere. How is she supposed to live with that? You could've covered her. You were so rough—no care at all."

I looked at her, exhaustion hitting hard.

I didn't say anything else. No point arguing.

The next day, I got back to base. Something felt off.

Captain Jacob Todd called me into his office. He slammed a stack of printed comments on the desk, jaw tight.

"Look at this. The whole internet's calling us violent, saying we don't respect hostages."

He lit a cigarette, took a hard drag. "Cole, I know how you work. You do things your way. But right now, we're in a media storm. I need you to take a stance. Give the public an explanation."

He shoved a blank form at me. "Write a statement. Admit your handling was inappropriate. It was excessive. Then go on suspension, cooperate with the investigation, and wait it out."

I stared at the paper. Didn't touch it.

I knew exactly what this meant. Lieutenant Ryan Cocke, the unit's deputy captain, finally had his opening.

He'd never liked how I worked. Always pushing his "standard procedures" at meetings.

A few days later, it was official. Suspension.

Pulled off the front line.

I went back to my office—half workshop, half chaos. Custom tools everywhere. Notes on unconventional explosives scattered across the desk.

I powered up my computer and started wiping it clean.

Research notes. Blueprints. Tool mods. Gone.

One file at a time. Permanently deleted.

I left one thing behind.

The standard bomb disposal manual.

A week later, the unit packed into a formal briefing. The vibe was tight, heavy.

Jacob stood onstage and dropped my suspension in that loud, polished voice, hammering "standard procedure" and "humanitarian concerns" like it was gospel.

I sat in the corner, face blank.

Then his tone flipped. "Next, Lieutenant Cocke will serve as acting leader of Alpha Squad."

Ryan stood, smoothed his spotless uniform, cleared his throat.

He stepped onto the stage, eyes flicking over me. "Thanks for the trust. Every op stays inside the rules—with humanity. We're disciplined, not savages. We save lives at any cost—but never the hostage's dignity."

Clean, righteous. Message received.

A few newer guys bristled for me. The longtime guys who'd run missions with me? Silent.

Ryan's first move as acting lead? Straight to my station.

He tapped my desk, chin tipped up. "Lieutenant Chadwick, per regs, all specialized gear in your locker gets turned in during your suspension. Here's the key. Empty it. Now."

No effort to hide the contempt.

I said nothing. Opened the locker. Set out my tweaked tweezers, custom cutters, mini scope—one by one.

He looked pleased. "From now on, we stick to standard procedures. Those 'homemade' toys? Obsolete."

I looked up. "Quick question. You hit a bomb—epoxy packed with steel beads, strapped to an artery. The manual says use solvent. That solvent burns skin, causes secondary damage. What do you do?"

Ryan's face locked up. He stumbled. "Then... w-we follow the manual. Strictly. It's been verified over and over. It's the most scientific approach."

No flexibility. Just parroting regs.

I flashed back—years ago. My mentor, Clark Wayne, the Army's 'Master Defuser'. He'd clapped my shoulder. "Kid, rules are dead. People are alive. I care about how you think outside the box."

Now? I just sighed.

I started coasting.

A few days later, a bank flagged a standard "Thunderbolt" timer bomb. I got stuck on logistics.

Scene photos came in. I opened my laptop, pulled the standard Thunderbolt breakdown, and sent it over.

One of the senior techs called, voice tight. "Cole, isn't there a trap in the B2 circuit? Thought you mentioned it."

I answered flat. "Per the manual, B2's a standard fuse line. No special notes. Follow procedure."

I hung up.

That day, for the first time, I walked out the second my shift was over.

I skipped the workshop—no bomb study. Hit the range instead and burned through five full mags.

Meanwhile, Ryan rolled out this ridiculous "equipment verification checklist" in Alpha Squad.

Thirty-plus pages. Two people had to cross-check everything three times before and after every mission, then sign off on it all.

That process alone tacked on fifteen extra minutes before every deployment.

The frustration stayed quiet—but it spread.

"Is Lieutenant Cocke serious? By the time he finishes that checklist, the hostages are already gone."

"Last time at the chemical plant, he stuck to procedure. We showed up five minutes late—almost blew the whole thing."

"All theory, zero field sense. Guy doesn't know a damn thing about real ops."

Some of the longtime guys came to me on the low, looking for answers.

I just poured one a glass of water. "Lieutenant Cocke's acting lead. We follow his orders. Everything by the book."

With me checked out and Ryan stacking bad calls, the squad's response time—and win rate—took a hit.

Jobs that used to be easy? Now they were borderline disasters.

I knew what they were waiting for—a real crisis to prove themselves.

I dropped a long-overdue leave request on Jacob's desk.

Thirty days. Full.

The second he saw it, his face darkened. "Cole Chadwick, what is this?"

He snapped the paper at my face. It clipped my cheek—sharp sting.

"The unit's short on manpower. You're asking for this much time off—what, trying to defy me?"

His voice dropped, sharp with threat. "You're not fooling anyone. This is a tantrum. You think this pressures the unit?"

He leaned in. "Let me be real clear—the world doesn't stop for you."

I said nothing. Just pulled a document from my pocket—the unit-approved Post–High-Risk Operation Psychological Evaluation Report.

I laid it out in front of him, tapped the last line. "Captain, it recommends rest and counseling. This leave request's fully compliant."

Jacob's face went tight, color draining. He shot me a look—but had nothing to say.

Finally, he scoffed, grabbed a pen, and slashed his signature across the form.

I turned to leave—then the door swung open.

My wife, Dana, walked in, hooked onto Ryan's arm, smiling.

She spotted me, voice dripping sarcasm. "Wow, look who it is—our big hero, Cole Chadwick. What, running off after one little setback? With nerves like that, how are you supposed to protect anyone?"

Ryan smirked. "Dana, you wouldn't get it. Some people? They're not exactly built for pressure. Not like us—we've had real training. We stay solid when it counts."

I didn't even look at them. Just kept walking.

At the end of the hall, a new guy—Kenny—jogged up and shoved a water bottle into my hand.

"Lieutenant Chadwick... there's something I probably shouldn't say." He hesitated. "That girl you saved? I heard she's the only daughter of Titan Microtech's chairman.

"Her family pulled every string trying to find you, even offered a big reward—but Captain Todd and Lieutenant Cocke buried it."

I gave a small nod.

That reward was never theirs to take.

I caught a bus out toward Northlake Reservoir, way past the edge of the city.

We'd barely cleared downtown when my unit comm started blaring.

Jacob's voice came through, all static and urgency. "Emergency! Major explosive threat at Worldgate Mall, city center! Multiple hostages! All personnel on leave, report back immediately!"

I shut it off. No hesitation.

Seconds later, my phone rang. Jacob.

"Cole! Get your ass back here—now!"

I kept my voice even. "Captain, one—I'm on approved leave. Two—per regs, suspended personnel aren't allowed at Class-A scenes."

I hung up.

I'd just set up my fishing rod by the reservoir when Dana called.

The second I picked up, she lost it. Full-on sobbing.

"Cole! Please, come back! My mom—she's at Worldgate Mall! They strapped a bomb to her!"

My chest dropped.