Stop looking at the shipping logs, or you’ll end up like Thorne.
My predecessor. Marcus Thorne. The police had ruled his death a tragic accident. He had driven his sedan off a mountain road in the middle of a rainstorm.
I clenched the piece of paper in my fist. Trent wasn't just stealing equipment. He had murdered the last person who tried to audit his books.
And now, he knew I was looking.
I reached under my desk, feeling along the metal frame until my fingers brushed against a small magnetic lockbox I had installed on my first day. I pulled it free, popped the latch, and stared at the contents.
A burner phone. A forged passport. And my loaded Glock 19.
I had a choice to make. I could pack my bags, disappear into the night, and find a new name. It was what my handler had told me to do if my cover was ever compromised.
But I looked back at the silver bullet on my desk.
I was tired of running.
CHAPTER 2
The next morning, the atmosphere at Blackwood Tactical felt like a loaded spring.
When I walked into the cafeteria for a cup of coffee, conversations died. Instructors and recruits who had ignored me for three weeks suddenly watched my every move. Rumors of my confrontation with Trent on the training mat had clearly spread through the facility like a wildfire.
I kept my head down, poured my black coffee, and walked straight to my office.
The mess from yesterday had been cleaned up by the janitorial staff, but the violation lingered in the air. I locked the door behind me and sat at my desk, pulling out a hidden flash drive from the lining of my boot.
I plugged it into my terminal.
If Trent was threatening me over the shipping logs, it meant I was close to finding whatever he was hiding. I brought up the last file Marcus Thorne had accessed before he died.
It was labeled Shipment 404.
According to the ledger, it was a routine transfer of heavy-duty black storage boxes marked as surplus ammunition, destined for an offshore disposal site. But the weights didn't make sense. The crates were too light to be filled with lead, and they required Level Five clearance to authorize the transport.
Civilian auditors only had Level Three. Trent had Level Five.
A sharp knock on my door startled me.
I pulled the flash drive, slipped it into my pocket, and unlocked the door.
Standing in the hallway was Hayes, one of Trent’s cronies. He looked down at me, chewing on a toothpick.
“Trent wants you on night patrol duty,” Hayes said, handing me a laminated schedule.
“I’m an auditor, not security,” I replied evenly.
“Budget cuts,” Hayes smirked. “Everyone pulls their weight. Your shift starts at 2200 hours. Loading dock C. Don’t be late.”
He turned and walked away before I could argue.
I looked down at the schedule. Loading dock C. It was the most isolated area of the compound, situated on the edge of the perimeter fence, bordering the dense Colorado pine forest.
It was a trap.
He was isolating me on the night shift where there were no cameras and no witnesses. It was exactly the kind of setup an amateur would use to intimidate or eliminate a problem.
The intelligent move was to leave the base immediately.
Instead, I spent the afternoon preparing.
At 2145 hours, the Colorado air was biting cold. The moon was hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, casting the sprawling Blackwood facility into deep shadows.
I wore my dark green jacket, my combat knife secured in a sheath inside my left boot, and my Glock tucked securely into the small of my back beneath my sweater.
I walked across the silent compound toward loading dock C. The amber security lights buzzed above me, casting long, distorted shadows on the concrete.