Chapter 27 – The Heart Beats Again at Home
New York – October 1995
It was a sunny Saturday, a rare autumn that had already painted the trees in golden, reddish and rusty tones. The breeze carried the smell of dry leaves, freshly baked bread from a bakery on the corner and the bittersweet mix that only New York could exude.
Logan Moore had been up since 6:00 in the morning. Not out of habit – although he was disciplined enough for that – but for a special reason: his parents were coming to visit his apartment for the first time.
He had cleaned every inch of the place the night before, and yet, this morning, he went over everything. He straightened the sofa cushions for the third time. He dusted the invisible dust off the bookshelf where some law books rested, a small plant that was beginning to grow proudly and a photo of him and Thomas, smiling in front of the Langdell Library, still at Harvard.
In the kitchen, coffee brewed slowly, the smell spreading like a welcome. Logan was making scrambled eggs and toast, and sorting fresh fruit into a glass bowl. He wasn't sure if his parents would want to eat, but he wanted everything to be perfect.
At 9:02, the intercom rang.
"Mr. Moore?" the doorman's voice said. "Mr. Richard Moore and Mrs. Clara Moore are here."
Logan's heart pounded. He pressed the button.
"Please let me up."
When the elevator doors opened, Logan's eyes filled with emotion.
"Mom… Dad."
"My son!" Clara exclaimed, opening her arms wide.
She ran to him like she was still a teenager coming home from school. Logan hugged her tightly, breathing in the simple scent he had always associated with home. His father, Richard, followed close behind, more composed, but with tears in his eyes.
— Logan… you look handsome, young man. Strong. More of a man than ever.
— You too, Dad. And Mom, you look beautiful.
— Oh, come on — Clara replied, drying her eyes. — Now show me this apartment, come on!
The place, although simple, was tastefully decorated. Clara ran her fingers through the light curtains in the living room, admired the small balcony and, most importantly, stopped in the kitchen, like every mother.
— Did you make coffee?
— Yes. There are eggs, fruit, toast…
— Did you learn how to cook?
— Harvard and the DOD don't teach you everything, do they? — Logan joked, making his father laugh.
— But they teach you enough to make this boy here a federal lawyer — Richard said, with evident pride in his voice.
The three of them sat at the table. They ate slowly, chatting between sips of coffee. Clara observed every detail with shining eyes.
— It's so good to see you like this, Logan. At home. In the city. Taking care of my own life… and still close to us.
"That's what I wanted most, Mom. To be able to be here, close to you. Even though work still takes me to Washington from time to time… now I have a home. And you're part of that."
Richard leaned back in his chair.
"And this new job? SCIF, security, secrecy… It all sounds like something out of a movie."
Logan smiled, taking a sip of his coffee.
"I can't tell you much, Dad. But what I can tell you is that I help analyze situations involving national security. Risk assessment, cyber threats, legal intelligence… all with supervision, of course."
Clara frowned.
"But you take care of yourself, right? Isn't that dangerous?"
"Mom, I work with paperwork, reports, and laws. I'm not a field agent," he said, holding her hand affectionately. "And I have access to very strong protection systems." The most dangerous thing I face… is the coffee from the office machine.
They laughed together.
After breakfast, Logan showed his parents the small bookshelf where he kept some of his personal things. There were photos from Harvard, newspaper clippings in which his name appeared as a winner of moot courts, and a small frame with a phrase his father had given him on old paper:
"Discipline is not talent. It's choice. Every day."
Richard looked at the frame and shook his head.
"I didn't even remember I gave you this."
"I remember it every day," Logan said, his voice low. "It's what kept me focused in difficult times."
Later, on the porch
The three of them were sitting on simple plastic chairs, looking out at the concrete skyline of the city that never sleeps.
Clara took her son's hand.
"You know, when you left home, back in 1989, your father and I… we didn't know if we could handle the distance.
— I remember. Mom cried for a week straight.
— That's a lie! It was only three days!
They laughed.
— But today, seeing everything you've achieved, my son... I understand that sometimes we need to let go of what we love so it can grow. And you've grown.
Richard nodded, turning to his son.
— And it goes even further. Just never forget where you came from.
— Never — Logan replied. — My home begins with you.
Chapter 28 – The Fine Line Between Law and War
New York – DOD Office | SCIF – October 1995
The light overhead was white, cold and constant. The silence inside the SCIF — Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility — was absolute, broken only by the subtle hum of high-security computers. The walls were windowless, not for lack of style, but for the need for secrecy.
Nothing entered or left here without authorization. No device had an external connection. No paper with sensitive data without a clearance seal. This was where the United States Government thought quietly about the most complicated aspects of its national security.
Logan Moore, now 23, sat in front of a screen divided into multiple documents, meticulously reading the transcript of an operation conducted by JSOC, the Joint Special Operations Command. In front of him, a 147-page report detailed the events that led to the neutralization of a Panamanian citizen on foreign territory.
The citizen's name? Luis Ramón Velásquez. Allegedly a logistical facilitator for a group that laundered drug money for Colombian insurgents. Logan squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and wrote on his pad:
"Undeclared combatant status. Legal review required. Investigation of proportion and necessity of lethal force."
He rested his elbows on the table and pressed his temples. This wasn't just an intellectual exercise. This was a matter of legitimacy. Of lives. And of the reputation of the United States on international soil. The door opened with an electronic click, released by biometric verification.
"Moore," said a firm but respectful voice. It was Major Elizabeth Chambers, the liaison between the DOD and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "Where are we on the Velásquez case?"
Logan stood and nodded curtly. "I'm in the process of comparing operational logs with drone footage. There is a discrepancy between the Bravo-4 operator's oral testimony and the visual feed."
"What kind of discrepancy?"
"Bravo-4 claims that Velásquez was arming himself. But in the images, he only raises his hands. There is no visible weapon within three meters. I want to be cautious before claiming any violation of protocol, but...
"But the image is clear, isn't it?"
"Clear. He was unarmed, or at least not visibly engaged in offensive action. And yet he was shot three times with an M4 rifle. Two in the chest. One in the head."
Chambers crossed his arms.
"Were the rules of engagement authorized?"
"Yes. But... the tricky part is the context. He was in a gray area, outside the main theater of operations. And as a Panamanian citizen on Costa Rican territory, there is a potential violation of local sovereignty."
Chambers took a deep breath.
"This is one of those cases where the law walks on thin ice. Go ahead, Moore. Your analysis is getting attention in Washington. Dr. Rowe has already seen your preliminary report. She asked to keep it at TS/SCI level until further notice.
Logan nodded.
"Sure. I'll keep everything inside the SCIF. No external notes. Only internal documentation."
"I need a memo with your legal conclusions by tomorrow, 0800. And Logan…"
"Yes?"
"Don't be condescending. But don't be a coward either. What matters here is the legal truth. You've been trained for that."
He nodded seriously.
"Understood, Major."
A few hours later – 5:32 p.m.
Logan was immersed in screens, listening and rewatching the radio communication of the operation. With internal headphones, he could hear the soldiers' voices in real time as the operation took place.
Operator Bravo-2 (voice tense):
"Target is moving, repeat, moving south. Suspected of carrying sensitive information."
Bravo-4:
"I have visual. Target is opening a backpack…"
Central Command:
"Confirm weaponry before firing."
Bravo-4:
"He's pulling something POSSIBLE WEAPON repeat, possible weaponry…"
Gunshots ring out. Silence.
Bravo-4:
"Target neutralized."
Logan paused there. Rewind. Play. Again. Again.
The drone image, with enough resolution to count the hairs on Velásquez's beard, showed him opening his backpack, taking out a notebook, and raising his hands.
No weapon.
Logan leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes for a second. Took a deep breath. This was serious. Not a deliberate execution at least it didn't seem like it but perhaps an error of judgment. An error that, in an international court, could be devastating. He began typing quickly.
The silent keyboard filled the room with its own music: "Based on analysis of audiovisual data and JSOC team communications transcripts, it is observed that the neutralization of individual Luis Ramón Velásquez occurred without objective evidence of an immediate lethal threat..."
He typed as if his life depended on it. Because, in a way, the integrity of the system did.
At 8:30 p.m., Logan printed out the memo three hard copies, numbered and watermarked internally. He stood up, walked over to the SCIF security vault, and put the documents away, along with the encrypted videos and transcripts. The system read:
"CLASSIFIED — TS/SCI — ACCESS GRANTED"
The click of the vault closing sounded like the end of a chapter. Logan sighed and leaned against the cold wall of the SCIF for a moment. The fatigue was physical and mental.
His pager vibrated. It was a simple message:
Dr. Rowe: "Great work today. Are you ready for more."
Logan smiled slightly. Ready? Maybe he never would be. But he would keep going. Because someone had to keep the balance between justice and power balanced.
Chapter 29 – The Discipline of Action
October 1995 – DOD New York Office, SCIF – 07:45
Logan was settling into his chair when he saw the white envelope, sealed with the internal mark of maximum security. It was unusual to receive printed communications at that level. He slid the blade of the coded key into the side of the mail and removed a single memo:
United States Department of Defense – Official Memorandum
Classification: TS/SCI
Subject: Tactical Training of Agents with National Security Clearances
To all federal employees with TS/SCI clearance:
Based on new internal guidelines and emerging risks related to Top Secret classified operations, beginning this week, all employees with TS/SCI clearance will be required to participate in a mandatory training program in hand-to-hand combat and firearms training.
Location: JSOC Tactical Training Center, Washington, D.C.
Start Date: October 25
Estimated Duration: 10 Days
Attendance Required.
Logan leaned back and let out a quiet laugh. It was unexpected, yes, but it also made sense. Sensitive information was as valuable as gold. And now, more than ever, someone like him who analyzed operations with geopolitical ramifications could also be targeted.
He picked up the internal phone and dialed Dr. Rowe's extension.
"Moore," the firm voice on the other end replied.
"Dr. Rowe, I got the memo about tactical training. Do you confirm?"
"Confirm. Every agent with your clearance level will participate. JSOC will lead the training. Hand-to-hand combat, self-defense, urban shooting. The scenarios will be realistic."
"Understood. Any specific guidelines for me?" — Yes. Go in with an open heart, but with the discipline I've seen you demonstrate so many times. You'll be amazed at what you can learn… and who you can impress.
October 25 – JSOC Tactical Training Center – Washington D.C. – 8:30 AM
The place looked like a secret military base—which, in fact, it was. Several hangars converted into training centers. Moving targets. Simulated urban environments with collapsible walls. Training dummies with electronic sensors. And, in the center of it all, JSOC operators—discreet, serious, absolutely prepared.
Logan was greeted by a sergeant with her hair tied in an impeccable bun, her face set in an expression of authority: Sergeant Millares.
"Name?" she asked, without looking up from her clipboard.
"Logan Moore."
She glanced at him briefly, marking his name with a tick.
"Attorney, right?"
"Correct. DOD, New York office." Clearance TS/SCI.
— You don't usually see people from the legal department around here.
— I didn't even imagine that. But we're here, right?
She smiled.
— Let's see if your mind is as sharp as your fists. Or at least if you know how to fall without breaking your teeth.
Hand-to-hand combat room – 9:00 AM
The group was small. Four civilians, two military personnel, and an NSA operator. All with TS/SCI. An instructor entered. Tall, broad-shouldered, calm-looking, but with eyes that read as if he were analyzing every weakness.
— Good morning. I'm Instructor Helman, former SEAL, current JSOC operator. Here you'll learn how to survive. Not to attack. But to stay alive long enough for someone else to attack for you.
Logan watched. His body reacted naturally to the environment. Upright posture. Controlled breathing. Muscle memory waking up. He'd been training martial arts since he was 9 years old. Karate. Jiu-jitsu. Even a little Krav Maga during the summers of my teenage years.
"First drill: bladed weapon disarming. Volunteer?"
Silence fell. Logan raised his hand.
"Brave lawyer," Helman said, tossing Logan a hard plastic training knife.
Helman came hard. Fast. Surprisingly so. But Logan moved with precision, dodging and twisting the instructor's wrist. The blade flew. The movement was fluid.
"Fuck…" one of the recruits said.
Helman smiled. For the first time.
"Who trained you?"
"My dad started it. The rest came with time and discipline."
"Go on. I want to see more."
In the minutes that followed, Logan was put to the test in various self-defense scenarios. Immobilization. Counterattacks. Close-quarters combat. And even sweating, he kept his breathing under control, as if he knew that the mind only works well when the body obeys.
At the end, Helman patted him on the shoulder.
— You're good. You could almost pass for one of us. Almost.
Next day – October 26 – Advanced Shooting Range – 7:00 a.m.
The difference from the previous day was clear. Logan, who had been confident until then, was now uncertain. He had never held a real gun. He knew the theory. He had read manuals. He had seen videos. But now it was real.
Instructor Ramos, a former Delta Force, with a thick beard and a clinical look, walked through the group with a Glock 19 in his hand.
— You're going to learn three things today: how to hold it, how to breathe, and how not to kill anyone by accident. Who has never shot?
Logan stood up hand, steady.
"Finally, an honest one. You're coming with me."
Ramos led him to a target station at 7 meters. He handed him the unloaded Glock.
"Show me how you think you're holding yourself."
Logan positioned his feet, aligned the base, and held it with both hands.
Ramos watched.
"Not bad. Adjust here… and here. Now load. Ammo in the magazine. Slide forward. That's it."
Logan took a breath, aimed, and fired. The gun recoiled with unexpected force. The first shot was high. The second, more central. The third, hit dead center.
"You learn fast," Ramos said.
Over the next few minutes, Logan got into the swing of things. He learned to align the slide, to control his breathing between shots, to stay calm even under the stress of loud noise.
After the Glock came the M4. Then the moving shot. Then, a simulation of an urban environment — with targets that appeared randomly.
And, surprisingly, Logan performed excellently. Not by reflex. But because he listened, processed, applied. The sharp mind that served the law now also operated in combat.
"You should consider spending a few weeks with us," Ramos said at the end of the training.
"And quit law?"
"Let's just say you'd make a good field lawyer."
End of the day – 6:30 p.m. – DOD Temporary Dormitory
Logan entered the simple room in the barracks. Firm beds. A metal closet. Amber light. He sat down, took off his boots, and turned on the voice recorder.
"Day 2 of tactical training. Intense hand-to-hand combat. Shooting techniques with Operator Ramos. Impressed by the depth of the technique. Exhausted, but focused. Valuable learning. A reminder that law does not exist in isolation from reality..."
He turned off the recorder. And for a moment, he looked at his hands. They were lightly marked, with small bruises, proof that he wasn't just a head. He was a body. He was an action.
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