The chandeliers of the Broadmoor ballroom cast long, fractured spears of gold across the snow-white damask of Table Twelve.

Around the perimeter of the room, the brass section of the 4th Infantry Division Band finished the final strains of an old Glenn Miller arrangement. The horns died into a breathless, razor-sharp vacuum. The silence that followed was not the polite pause between social dances. It was the sudden, pressurized hush that falls across an operations center when an incoming artillery track flashes crimson on the tactical display.

Della Ellison stood with her weight tipped forward, the hem of her four-thousand-dollar silk gown pressing against the gilded carving of her banquet chair. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow bursts, her dark eyes flashing with the bright, feverish triumph of a woman who believed she had cornered an enemy in an open field.

“Go ahead, Nora,” Della sneered, pitching her voice so that it carried straight to the head table where the command staff sat beneath the crossed guidons. “Tell everyone at Table Twelve why you spent twenty-four months in Germany while the rest of our family was handling real responsibilities. Tell them how you got that little ribbon while sitting in an air-conditioned triage office signing medical requisitions!”

Richard Ellison did not look at his younger daughter. His jaw was set in that rigid, uncompromising line he used during board meetings at his commercial real estate brokerage in Denver. He reached for his crystal tumbler of scotch, his knuckles white against the cut glass, his gaze sweeping over the nearby tables to gauge the social damage.

“Della, that is enough,” Richard muttered, though his tone carried none of the thunder he had aimed at Nora thirty seconds earlier. It was the tired, conspiratorial plea of an indulgent father whispering to a favored child whose theatrical tantrum had exceeded the perimeter of the living room. “Sit down. People are looking.”

“Let them look, Dad!” Della threw her hands wide, her diamond tennis bracelet catching the light with a cruel, jittery flash. “I’m sick of the performance! For eight years, every Thanksgiving, every Christmas, every anniversary dinner has been held hostage by Nora’s ‘classified’ schedule. She shows up when she wants, dressed in combat boots or this… this costume, and you hand her the head of the table like she’s a visiting dignitary. Meanwhile, I’m the one who stayed in Colorado. I’m the one who brought the Sterling account into your firm. I’m the one who took care of Mother’s estate!”

Nora Ellison did not move.

Her Army Service Uniform was tailored with surgical precision, the midnight-blue wool falling straight and true from her square shoulders to the polished leather of her low-quarter shoes. Above her left breast pocket, arranged in immaculate rows according to Army Regulation 670-1, were her ribbons and decorations: the Bronze Star Medal with a bronze “V” device for valor, the Meritorious Service Medal with three oak leaf clusters, the Combat Medical Badge, and pinned slightly apart from the ribbons, catching the light like a deep, frozen tear of purple glass, the Purple Heart.

Beneath the heavy wool of her jacket, across the upper left quadrant of her ribs, the scar tissue from a seventy-millimeter shrapnel entry wound burned with a dull, throbbing heat.

It always burned when the barometric pressure dropped before a mountain snowstorm.

“Della,” Nora said, her voice remaining in that low, clinical octave that had steadied nineteen-year-old infantrymen bleeding out in the back of an MH-60 Black Hawk over the Kunar Province. “You have thirty seconds to sit down in that chair and eat your salad. After that, this ceases to be a family argument.”

“Or what?” Della laughed, a sharp, braying sound that scraped against the quiet room like a trowel across wet cement. “You’re going to tackle me? You’re going to call the military police on your own sister because I asked you to verify a piece of ribbon you bought at an army surplus store in Lakewood?”

A scraping sound echoed from the far side of Table Seven.

Colonel Michael Harris, commander of the 10th Special Forces Group at Fort Carson, stood up slowly.

He was fifty-six years old, built like an iron piling driven into bedrock, his service dress uniform adorned with four rows of combat ribbons, the master parachutist badge, and the gold laurel wreath of the Legion of Merit. He did not look at Della. He did not look at Richard. He set his linen napkin on his bread plate with the deliberate, unhurried care of an executioner laying down his hood.

Beside him, Mrs. Harris reached out and gently laid her hand over his empty water glass, her eyes fixed on Nora with an expression of cold, unblinking fury.