Booting up his laptop, Gabriel entered the letters alongside the code from the strip. For a moment, the cursor blinked, mocking him. Then, the screen shifted. The wall of encryption collapsed, dissolving into a clean directory of folders.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He was inside.
He clicked the first file. It appeared to be shipping manifests. But as he scrolled, the words made his skin crawl. These weren’t supplies or rations. They were weapons—not old surplus or obsolete gear, but advanced, state-of-the-art guidance systems and heavy ordnance—with destinations obscured by falsified routing numbers.
The next folder contained audio recordings. He clicked one. The sound was muffled but clear enough to make out the voices.
A woman’s voice, cold and transactional, discussed shipments.
“The deliverables need to be rerouted by the 14th. I don’t care about the optics. Just get it done.”
An Eastern European accent answered on the other end, bargaining prices. Gabriel sat back, the blood draining from his face.
This was no bureaucratic mistake. This was treason.
Rook stirred uneasily at his feet, whining low. Gabriel stroked his head absently, his eyes glued to the screen. “Yeah, I know. This is bigger than me. Bigger than all of us.”
Meanwhile, in town, Claire Jennings pressed the receiver of her office phone to her ear, her jaw tight.
Another anonymous call. Another threat. But unlike the last, this one had been sloppy. The caller hadn’t hung up properly.
She heard a faint clicking, followed by a few seconds of dead air before the line disconnected. She pulled the recording from her system, put on her headphones, and replayed the tail end of the call. She cranked the volume up until the static hissed.
There. In the background.
A low, oscillating hum. The kind of sound she had heard only once before, during a field report on military technology. Drones. Or heavy automated machinery.
Her pulse quickened. Could it be connected to the whispers she’d been chasing about Aegis Security Solutions? She jotted the detail into her notebook, underlining it twice: Drones. Logistics base nearby.
The threats weren’t silencing her. They were sharpening her resolve.
That night, as she left the office, a pair of headlights followed her down the deserted street. She quickened her pace, her hand gripping the canister of pepper spray in her coat pocket until her fingers ached. She turned a corner sharply, ducking into an alleyway shortcut.
The car slowed, paused at the mouth of the alley, and then turned away.
She let out a shaky breath, leaning against the brick wall. The walls were closing in. Soon, she would need proof—real, tangible proof—or her fight would end in shadows.
Back in the cabin, Gabriel sifted through more files. He clicked open a video log.
Grainy footage filled the screen. A woman, late forties, dark hair perfectly styled, seated behind a glass desk that looked more like a throne. Her nameplate read: Miranda Locke, CEO, Aegis Security Solutions.
Gabriel’s chest tightened as her voice filled the small cabin. Sharp, commanding, utterly devoid of conscience. She spoke of “acceptable losses” and “deniability” as if she were ordering lunch. He closed the file abruptly, bile rising in his throat.
The truth was undeniable now, but it was also deadly. If Locke commanded enough power to move weapons like this, she commanded enough power to silence anyone who found out.
Rook suddenly rose.