A man in a gray sweatshirt approached from the east entrance too quickly.
Olivia shifted position.
He walked past.
Nothing.
Then Miller said:
“Back exit.”
They moved through a maintenance corridor and came out behind the building.
Shaw’s vehicle was gone.
Ryan stared at the empty parking space.
“She left us?”
Olivia checked her phone.
No signal.
Miller swore.
“My truck.”
They reached it.
The front tire was flat.
Not slashed.
The valve had been removed.
Intentional.
Ryan looked around.
“Whoever did this doesn’t want us dead.”
Olivia studied the security camera above the loading entrance.
“No.”
“What do they want?”
“To know what we found.”
They walked three blocks before Olivia’s phone found service again.
Nine missed calls.
Every one from Shaw.
Olivia called her.
The colonel answered instantly.
“Where are you?”
“Moving.”
“My car was stolen.”
“We noticed.”
“Did you open the locker?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“What was inside?”
Olivia looked at Miller.
“A notebook.”
“What notebook?”
“Tell me where Reyes is.”
“I don’t know.”
“Then tell me about General Arturo Reyes.”
Shaw went silent.
Olivia stopped walking.
Ryan watched her expression.
“Colonel.”
Finally Shaw answered.
“Come back.”
“No.”
“Grant.”
“If I return, I want the entire story.”
“You’ll get it.”
“That is what everybody says right before giving me half.”
Silence again.
Then Shaw said:
“Arturo Reyes helped create Forty-Two.”
Ryan closed his eyes.
Olivia put the call on speaker.
Shaw continued.
“He was a behavioral research officer before Daniel was born. Brilliant. Obsessive. He believed many military disasters happened because institutions rewarded obedience more than judgment.”
“So he built the model?”
“He built the theory.”
“Vance?”
“Turned it operational.”
“Miller?”
A pause.
“Internal observer.”
Ryan stared at him.
Miller nodded once.
Olivia asked the important question.
“What happened to Arturo Reyes?”
Shaw replied.
“Officially? A vehicle accident sixteen years ago.”
“And unofficially?”
“We believe he staged his death.”
Ryan’s face went blank.
“My friend spent his life believing his father was dead.”
Shaw softened.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Arturo discovered that other people wanted to use his research differently.”
“To identify dissenters.”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“We don’t know.”
Miller let out one quiet laugh.
Olivia turned toward him.
“What?”
He held up the notebook.
“I think we might.”
They entered a small diner two streets away and took a booth near the back.
Miller opened the notebook to the numbered pages.
“These aren’t scores.”
Olivia studied them.
Coordinates?
No.
Dates?
No.
Ryan leaned closer.
“Bus schedules.”
Miller shook his head.
“Storage sectors.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Vance used the same notation.”
Olivia turned several pages.
42 appeared repeatedly.
Then 6.
Numbers followed by letters.
Miller traced one entry.
“This refers to archived training reels.”
Olivia frowned.
“Room 42.”
“No.”
Miller looked up.
“Building 42.”
There was no Building 42 on the current base map.
There had been one fifteen years earlier.
A medical research annex beyond the old training perimeter.
Demolished, according to official records.
Except the utility grid still showed power consumption.
Low.
Steady.
Active.
They returned after midnight.
No uniforms.
No radios tied to base channels.
The building looked abandoned.
A damaged sign.
Boarded windows.
Weeds pushing through cracked concrete.
But the rear entrance had a modern electronic lock.
Ryan murmured, “Very demolished.”
Miller bypassed an older mechanical secondary lock.
Inside, the air smelled filtered.
Clean.
Not abandoned.
They found offices.
Servers.
Paper files.
And one wall covered with photographs.
Olivia stopped.
Hundreds of faces.