“Finish your patrol, Vance. On the other side of the base.”
I nodded quickly, turned, and walked away. I kept my pace brisk, resisting the urge to look back over my shoulder.
When I was finally out of sight, I ducked into the shadow of the main armory building and leaned against the cold brick wall. My heart was pounding, but my mind was racing with absolute clarity.
Trent wasn't just a corrupt instructor skimming off the top. He was orchestrating a massive data breach.
I pulled my burner phone out and looked at the short video I had captured. I zoomed in on Trent’s arm as he pointed toward the truck. His black sleeve was rolled up slightly, exposing a patch of skin on his inner wrist.
The image was grainy, but I could make out the dark ink of a tattoo.
It was a broken arrow, wrapped in barbed wire.
The breath caught in my throat. My vision blurred for a fraction of a second.
Three years ago, hiding in the rubble of a safe house in Eastern Europe, I had watched a mercenary execute my commanding officer. As the mercenary pulled the trigger, his sleeve had ridden up, exposing that exact same tattoo.
The Rogue Unit.
Trent wasn't just a thief. He was one of the men who had slaughtered my team.
I gripped the phone so hard the plastic casing creaked.
I wasn't going to run. I wasn't going to hide.
I was going to burn his entire life to the ground.
CHAPTER 3
The following night, the air inside Blackwood Tactical felt suffocatingly still.
I sat in my darkened office, the glow of my monitor reflecting off my eyes. I had spent the last twenty-four hours analyzing the video, confirming the tattoo, and mapping out Trent’s patrol routes.
My hands were steady, but the cold knot of dread in my stomach was heavy.
This was no longer about an audit. This was deeply, violently personal.
If Trent was part of the mercenary unit that had ambushed Task Force Echo, the data he was stealing wasn't just random blueprints. He was downloading the identities and safe houses of active covert operatives. He was selling them to the highest bidder.
I needed proof. Hard, undeniable proof that I could send to my old handler at the DOD.
To get it, I needed to access the primary server room in Sector Four. The only problem was that Sector Four required a Level Five keycard.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.
Where would Trent keep a master keycard? He wouldn't leave it in his quarters. He wouldn't leave it in a desk. A man like Trent kept his most valuable assets on his person.
I remembered the moment on the training mat. The way his hand had instinctively brushed his pocket when he fell.
I needed to get close to him again. I needed him to make a mistake.
At midnight, I left my office. The corridors were empty, lit only by emergency lighting. I bypassed the main security checkpoints, using the maintenance shafts I had memorized during my first week.
I slipped out of a ventilation grate on the third floor, brushing the dust off my dark clothing.
I was officially hunting.
I moved silently down the hall toward the instructor dormitories. I knew Trent had the night shift in the tactical command center. I wasn't looking for him. I was looking for Miller or Hayes.
I found Hayes in the break room, sitting alone at a small plastic table, scrolling through his phone with a half-empty mug of coffee in front of him.
I stepped into the doorway.
He looked up, surprised. “Vance? What the hell are you doing up here? This is restricted.”
“I know,” I said calmly, stepping fully into the room. I let the heavy door click shut behind me.