"You, move your hands," the soldier barked as he shoved past the waiting chairs.
"Sir, you can't—" the clinic assistant started, standing up so fast she knocked a stack of intake forms off the counter.
"Back," he said. "Everyone stay seated."
"What's going on?" a patient demanded from the far chair. Her voice shook but her eyes fixed on the soldier like she was waiting for permission to panic.
The soldier planted both boots in front of the reception desk and ignored the question. He did not look like a visitor. He looked like an answer.
"Name," Grace said, keeping her tone official. She slid the intake clipboard away so he couldn't see patient names.
"Bryce Courtney," he said. No courtesy in the way he said it. No smile. He bent slightly so his voice didn't have to cross the desk.
Grace's hands were steady. "You're on a restricted access list. You need clearance."
He laughed without humor. "I'm not here for access. I'm here for you."
"Excuse me?" the assistant snapped. "This is a public clinic."
"Not anymore," Bryce said. "Close the clinic. Come with me."
"No." Grace folded one hand over the other. "You don't shut a medical facility because you feel like it."
"Do you want me to call the marshal?" he asked. He didn't need to ask. He already had a phone in his hand.
"Call them," Grace said. "And tell them why a soldier storms
