Blog Post Title Four

Eyes of Mercy – Chapter 1: The Girl No One Knows 

The man chose the corner booth with his back to the wall and his eyes on the door. 

Simone spotted him the moment she stepped into the diner. Not because he stood out—he didn’t. That was the problem. Ex-military tried so hard to blend in that they left their own kind of footprint: the way they scanned exits, the way their shoulders never fully relaxed, the way their hands hovered just above the table instead of resting on it. 

He had a chipped coffee mug in front of him and hadn’t touched it. 

Simone slid into the opposite side of the booth, setting her canvas tote on the seat beside her. The diner light washed him in tired yellow. He looked older than the fifty-two he’d written in the email. Gray at the temples. A jaw that had been clenched since 2003. 

“You’re early,” she said softly. 

“You’re late,” he countered, checking the clock above the kitchen window. 

She was exactly on time. That told her what she needed to know—not about the minutes, but about his nerves. 

“I came alone,” she said. “No camera. No recorder. Just like I promised.” His eyes flicked to the tote. 

“Notebook,” she added. “Paper doesn’t ping satellites.” 

That got the smallest huff of air from him. Not a laugh, but close. He swallowed it down, looked past her, then back. 

“They told me you were paranoid,” he said. “They didn’t say you were… quiet.” 

“‘Paranoid’ is usually what people call ‘still breathing,’” Simone replied. “And the quiet helps me listen.” 

He studied her face as if waiting for a reveal. She could see the search in his eyes: recognition that never came. People imagined “Mara Ellison”—the name attached to the stories that blew up timelines and emptied offices—as taller, sharper, louder. They didn’t picture a woman in a plain black turtleneck and jeans, hair pulled into a low knot, no makeup, no perfume, no easily remembered features. 

That was the point.

The waitress appeared and poured her coffee without asking. Simone nodded a thanks and wrapped her hands around the mug, more for something to do than the warmth. 

“Just to be clear,” the man said, voice low. “You are her? You’re really Mara Ellison?” Simone lifted one shoulder. “The byline is mine. The rest doesn’t matter.” His tongue pressed against his cheek. “Feels like it matters to me.” 

“Names get people killed,” she said. “Stories get people heard. We’re here for the second part. You said you had something that needed to be heard.” 

He scanned the diner again. Two truckers at the counter. A couple sharing pancakes in the middle. No one paying attention. That meant someone could be paying a lot of attention and she just hadn’t spotted them yet. 

She never assumed she was the one in control. That kept her alive. 

“You write about everything,” he murmured. “Contractor kickbacks, pharma trials, dirty sheriffs. You could’ve picked one lane and gotten rich in it.” 

“It all sits on the same highway,” she said. “Greed with a badge, greed with a logo. But you didn’t write me about cops or pills.” 

“No,” he said. His gaze dropped to his hands. They trembled once, then flattened on the table. “I wrote you about soldiers.” 

Simone let the silence open. People filled silence with the things they were afraid to say. He didn’t make her wait long. 

“We were told we were cleaning up the world,” he said quietly. “Turns out we were just delivering it.” 

“To who?” she asked. 

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter who at the top. There was always somebody else further up. What matters is someone’s using our boys, our flights, our supply lines like they’re running Amazon Prime for demons.” 

“Smuggling?” Simone asked. “Weapons? Cash? People?” 

“Guns. Drugs. God knows what else by now.” His jaw flexed. “Stuff went out. Stuff came back. Never on the books, never in the system. But it was always protected. That’s how you know it’s blessed from above. No one touches it.”

A coffee pot clinked, silverware chimed, a blender whirred in the kitchen. Normal noises. Her pen hovered over the page of her small black notebook, where she’d drawn only the date and a time: 09:17. 

“Okay,” she said. “Walk me slow. Flights. Bases. Ports.” 

He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I did twenty years. Thought I’d seen everything. But there’s this unit—black ops, off the books even for us. They started using our cargo routes. At first it was just ‘classified equipment.’ Then crates came through with manifests that made no sense. Wrong weights, wrong codes, partial serials. We weren’t supposed to ask.” 

“But you did.” 

“I tried.” His eyes hardened. “My CO told me I was tired. Needed leave. They reassigned me stateside three weeks later. My replacement didn’t last three months.” 

“Burned out?” she asked. 

“Dead,” he said. “Officially? Training accident. Unofficially?” He shook his head. “You see enough accidents land on the same two, three names, you stop believing in coincidence.” 

Simone’s pen moved in small, tight letters. She didn’t write names yet. Just patterns. “These names—you have them?” 

“I brought something.” He reached into his coat slowly, like he half-expected someone to shout. When his hand came out, he set a folded sheet of paper on the table. 

It was thick and worn soft at the edges. Not original, then. A copy. Smart man. She didn’t touch it yet. 

“Looked you up after I got back,” he said. “Couldn’t find anything. Not a picture. Not a video. Nobody knows your face. You realize how crazy that is in 2025?” 

“I work hard at being boring,” Simone replied. 

“You work hard at staying alive,” he corrected. 

She didn’t argue. Her phone buzzed softly in her pocket. Her muscles twitched toward it by instinct, then settled. She knew the rhythm of that vibration. Encrypted app, overseas signal, delay just long enough to mean the call was bouncing through half the satellite grid. 

Her fiancé. 

She let it buzz. Stories first. Life later. That was the trap she was trying not to fall into anymore, but old habits had a way of keeping their hands around your throat.

“You gonna answer that?” the man asked. 

“It can wait,” she said. 

He watched her, then nodded once, like her choice proved something about her that he’d suspected. 

“The unit,” she said, nodding toward the paper. “What were they called?” His mouth flattened. “Codename on the briefings was Mercy Flight.” 

Her pen stopped. 

Mercy. 

She didn’t show reaction on her face, but her stomach tightened. Mercy had brushed against her work before, like a shadow on the edge of a photo. Anonymous tips that mentioned it and then went dark. An unredacted line in a leaked procurement doc that had disappeared an hour after she screenshotted it. 

“Say that again,” she murmured. 

“Mercy Flight,” he repeated. “No insignia. No patches. Guys came through with unreadable IDs and eyes like they’d seen the inside of hell and didn’t mind living there.” 

Simone finally picked up the paper. It was an old printout of a manifest: flight numbers, crate labels, weight logs. A column of numbers had been circled in fading blue ink. At the bottom, half cut off, were letters that might once have spelled out a name before the copier missed the edge. 

“Did you keep originals?” she asked. 

He shook his head sharply. “This is it. I shredded the rest.” 

“Why bring anything at all?” 

“Because I couldn’t sleep.” He met her eyes, and for a moment, all the hardness cracked. “Because my grandson is twelve. Because I don’t want him strapping on the same flag just to move somebody’s poison across the ocean. Because… because I heard what you did in Honduras, and in Detroit, and with that cop in Louisiana. People go down when your articles go up.” 

“Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes they just move.” 

He held her gaze. “’Sometimes’ is better than ‘never.’” 

The waitress drifted by and topped off his coffee. He didn’t see her. His eyes were locked on the door again, like he expected Mercy Flight to walk in and turn this into a crime scene.

“You said in your email you had more than a manifest,” Simone said. 

He swallowed. The muscles in his neck jump. “Yeah. I did. Folders. Names. I had this list… part of a comms chain, I think. Officers. Contractors. There was a colonel’s name on there. Civilians, too. Some I recognized from the news. But—” 

“But?” she pressed. 

“It’s gone,” he said. “House got broken into last month.” 

Her pen stopped again. “You report it?” 

“Sure,” he said, bitter. “Two uniforms came. Took a statement. Suggested it was kids.” He looked at her. “They didn’t take the TV, Ms. Ellison. They took one box from my closet and left the watch my wife gave me when I shipped out the first time. Kids don’t do that.” 

Her jaw flexed. She took a breath, slow and controlled, the way she’d learned to when interviews got close to the edge of fear. 

“Did anyone know you reached out to me?” she asked. 

“No. I used the public terminal at the library. New email account.” 

“Did you talk to anyone about me? Mention my name in a bar, to friends, to family?” “Hell no.” 

“Then assume this,” she said quietly. “You weren’t robbed because of me. You were robbed because you knew too much, and they didn’t know I existed yet.” 

He blinked. “Yet?” 

“Mara Ellison does not do TV hits. She doesn’t take awards. She doesn’t sit on panels,” Simone said. “Only a small group of people know how to reach me. Most of my sources die thinking I’m a rumor.” 

“That supposed to make me feel better?” he asked. 

“It’s supposed to mean that whatever this is,” she tapped the manifest, “started without me. I’m not the beginning. I might be the end.” 

He stared at her for a long moment, then let out a breath that sounded like air escaping a punctured tire. 

“I’m tired,” he said. “You gonna… write it? Even if it puts you—whoever you are—on their board?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she said honestly. “First I verify. I don’t publish ghosts and guesses. I need names, routes, dates. I need to know Mercy Flight exists on paper somewhere other than this diner table.” 

“And if it doesn’t?” he asked. 

She flipped the manifest over and saw a handwritten note on the back. Three letters and a number, like a code: MF-17B. Under that, a line of coordinates and a date scribbled in jagged script. 

“Everything leaves a footprint,” she said. “If I can’t find one, that’s its own story.” He nodded slowly, the lines in his face deepening. 

“Okay,” he said. “Then I’ve done my part.” 

He slid out of the booth. For a second, she thought he might reach out, shake her hand, ask for reassurance. He didn’t. He adjusted his coat, glanced once more at the door, and walked out into the pale D.C. morning. 

Simone watched him go, committing his silhouette to memory, then folded the manifest and tucked it into the inner pocket of her jacket. 

Her phone buzzed in her pocket again, insistent this time. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen. 

Jordan – Secure Call (lag: 11s) 

The corner of her mouth softened. She stood, dropped some bills on the table, and headed for the side exit instead of the front. Habit. The glass door sighed shut behind her, cutting off the smell of burnt coffee and syrup. 

Outside, the air bit colder. The diner sat three blocks from a Metro stop, close enough that she could disappear into a crowd in under two minutes. She had done it a hundred times. Today, her fingers lingered over the answer icon a second longer than usual before she swiped. 

The call connected with a delay crackle. 

“Hey, stranger,” Jordan’s voice came, slightly distorted, warm even through the static. “You screenin’ me now, or is D.C. just stealing all your signal?” 

“You picked a war zone,” she said, walking, keeping her pace easy. “I picked a city that pretends it’s not one.” 

He laughed softly. The sound unwound a knot in her chest she hadn’t realized was there. “Got maybe two minutes,” he said. “Wind’s kicking up. Sand’s in everything.”

“Romantic,” she murmured. 

“Six months,” he said. “Six months and I’m done letting the wind kiss me more than you.” She smiled, genuinely this time. “You remember the date; I’m impressed.” 

“June twenty-first,” he said without missing a beat. “First day of summer, remember? You said you wanted to walk out of the church and straight into the heat.” 

“I said I wanted sun for the photos,” she corrected. “The heat is just punishment for everybody wearing suits.” 

“Semantics,” he said. There was a pause, a hitch that had nothing to do with the connection. “You good? You sound… wired.” 

She considered lying. “I met a source,” she said instead. “He’s scared. That’s usually a good sign for me, bad sign for the world.” 

“What’s the story?” 

“Military logistics,” she said carefully. “Supply flights. Off-book cargo. I don’t have enough yet.” “Stay away from us,” he said instinctively. “I mean it, Simone. If this is touching where I am—” “It’s not,” she lied smoothly. “I don’t have names. Just whispers.” 

“Whispers get loud when you print them,” he said. “And some people don’t like the sound.” “I know,” she said. “I’ve met a few.” 

He sighed. The wind on his end howled for a second, then faded. “Promise me you won’t go chasing something that doesn’t have a floor yet.” 

“I’ll walk carefully,” she said. 

“That’s not what I asked you to promise.” 

She reached the Metro entrance and paused at the top of the stairs, watching people stream in and out. No one looked at her twice. That anonymity, that invisibility, had always been her armor. 

Lately, it felt like a thin coat. 

“We’re both doing dangerous jobs,” she said softly. “Yours has bullets. Mine has lawyers. Let me worry about my side.” 

“You’re not disposable to me,” he said. “You know that, right?”

The words landed heavier than he probably meant them to. Disposable. That’s what corrupt systems were built on—people you could lose without shaking the structure. 

“I know,” she said, throat tight. “We’ll pick the menu next time you call. I’ve decided I hate chicken. Tell your mom before she orders the whole farm.” 

He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll call when I can. I… love you, Simone.” 

“I love you too,” she said. The call cut a half-second later. 

She stood there a moment with the dead phone in her hand, watching her breath fog in the air. Then she slipped it away, pulled up her scarf, and descended into the station. 

By the time she reached her apartment building on the other side of town an hour later, her mind was already unspooling paths: How to verify the manifest. Who owed her a favor at the procurement office. Which analyst could read the coordinates without asking too many questions. 

The hallway lights on her floor hummed softly. Someone’s TV bled canned laughter through a closed door. She dug her keys out of her pocket—and froze. 

A plain, white envelope lay on the mat outside her apartment. No address, no stamp. Just her unit number, written in small, careful block letters. 

Her first thought was junk. A flyer. Some neighbor kid stuck the wrong door. But the envelope was heavy at the middle, the way paper got when it had been folded and refolded and held too long in a nervous hand. 

Simone glanced once, casually, down the hall. Empty. 

She picked up the envelope. 

No name on the front. 

On the back, in the same neat block letters, there were two words: 

FOR MARA. 

Her pulse tripped. No one in this building knew that name. 

She slid her key into the lock, pushed the door open, and stepped inside without turning her back to the hall until the deadbolt was thrown. 

Only then did she exhale, leaning against the wood for half a beat before crossing to the small kitchen table near the window.

She laid the envelope down like it might move on its own. The apartment was quiet around her—bookshelves, couch, laptop asleep on the coffee table. Nothing out of place. Nothing to explain how the perimeter of her life had just been breached. 

On the table, beneath the envelope’s flap, something waited—evidence or threat, invitation or warning. 

For the first time that day, Simone felt something she didn’t let herself feel often. Not fear. 

Recognition. 

For years, she’d been the ghost at other people’s doors. 

Now, someone had found hers. 

She slipped a finger under the seal and began to open it. 

The envelope opened with a whisper, thin paper tearing like a secret giving way. She slid out the contents carefully, laying them on the table one by one. 

Three items. 

1. A small printed photo 

2. A folded sheet of paper covered in numbers 

3. A typed slip with one line of text 

Simone picked up the photo first. 

It was a grainy black-and-white image, clearly printed from a surveillance camera. The timestamp in the corner was blurred, but the outlines were visible: a cargo bay, a shadowed figure walking toward a stack of crates. The logo on the wall behind him caught her breath. 

An eagle, talons extended — but the wings were missing. 

A patch with no wings. 

That was the kind of thing military units made on purpose. 

She flipped the photo over. 

Two letters written in pen on the back: 

MF

Mercy Flight. 

Her fingers tightened around the photo. 

Next, she unfolded the paper. It was a list of coordinates paired with dates and abbreviated flight numbers: 

QX-502 / 38.8514 N, -76.8755 W 

QX-503 / 39.2847 N, -77.0641 W 

QX-504 / 40.1152 N, -75.0828 W 

Different cities. Same coastline. Same corridor. 

Cold water slid down her spine. 

The slip of typed text lay between her fingers now, and she lifted it into the light. Only one sentence: 

“The colonel meets the shipments personally.” 

Simone’s pulse drummed. 

This wasn’t rumor. 

This wasn’t hearsay. 

Someone had eyes inside. 

Someone knew her pen name. 

Someone wanted her to blow the story open. 

Or someone wanted her dead. 

It was hard to tell which, and that was what made the air feel sharp around her. A breeze rattled the blinds. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. She listened. Silence. 

Her brain sorted options with surgical precision: 

● Someone slipped this under her door. 

● They know “Mara Ellison” lives here. 

● They want her to know they know.

● That means they’re watching. 

Simone reached slowly beneath the table to the drawer tucked against the underside. A plain burner phone, wrapped in a napkin, came out first. Then a drive the size of a thumbnail. She wasn’t running yet, but she was preparing. 

The only sound was her heartbeat. 

She turned toward her laptop to open her encrypted drive— 

A faint tap echoed against her window. 

Not loud. Not accidental. 

A purposeful sound. 

Simone’s breath froze. 

The blinds trembled once, touched by something from the outside. 

Her apartment was on the sixth floor. 

No balcony. 

No ledge. 

No wind strong enough to knock anything. 

She closed her fist around the tiny drive. Her eyes remained locked on the window. Slowly, she stood and crossed the room, every inch of her body taught and alert. 

She reached the blinds and peeled back a single slat. 

A pair of headlights flashed on the street far below. A car idled at the curb, dark sedan, windows tinted. 

A figure sat in the driver's seat, motionless, staring up at her building. 

Not moving. Not shifting. Just… watching. 

The sedan’s brake lights glowed red for a moment, then the engine roared. The car pulled off, disappearing into the city’s arteries like a ghost that had never been there. 

Simone let the blinds fall back into place. 

Her hands shook once — just once — then steadied.

Someone knew exactly who she was. 

But they weren’t sure what she was capable of. 

That was their mistake. 

She returned to the table, gathered the envelope contents, and stacked them neatly. Her notebook flipped open to a blank page. She wrote three words, her handwriting measured and sharp: 

TRACK MERCY FLIGHT. 

Her phone buzzed again — a text this time, from Jordan. 

Still awake? I felt something off. Call me when you’re safe. 

Her throat tightened. She typed back with steady thumbs: 

I’m safe. I promise. Get some sleep. 

When she set the phone down, her eyes drifted to the engagement ring on her finger — a symbol of something she hadn’t yet earned: safety. 

She leaned back, staring at the envelope again. 

There was no choice now. 

She was going to follow this. 

She was going to dig until her nails split. 

And if the people behind Mercy Flight thought uncovering her identity would stop her? They didn't know who they were dealing with. 

Simone clicked her pen, pressed the tip to the paper, and began outlining the story’s first attack point. 

Her final thought before she started writing was the same calm, chilling truth that had guided her for years: 

They found her. 

But she found them first.