Chapter 7 - The Municipal Airfield
“Turn around,” I instructed, sliding my phone back into my pocket with a cold, absolute resolve. “We’re not going to the base command center yet.”
Thorne frowned, turning her head to look at me with sharp skepticism. “Commander, my orders are to deliver you directly to the JAG investigator at Naval Station Norfolk’s regional office. Deviating from protocol—”
“Protocol went out the window the moment my step-father traded my operational readiness for a stash of offshore cash,” I interrupted, my tone leaving zero room for argument. I tapped the screen and held it out so she could see the flashing red GPS ping. “Look at the coordinates. That file originated from a private hangar at the airfield three miles up the road. Someone is burning their digital paper trail right now.”
Thorne stared at the screen, her professional hesitation warring with her instinct as an investigator. Slowly, her jaw tightened. She reached down, threw the car into reverse, and whipped the sedan around in a wide, gravel-spitting arc.
“If we find a server being scrubbed,” Thorne said as she slammed the accelerator down, “we’re calling base security before we step foot inside.”
“Agreed,” I said, though my hand was already resting near the service holster tucked beneath my coat.
Ten minutes later, the unmarked sedan crept past the perimeter gates of the municipal airfield without turning on its high beams. Rows of private hangars stretched out into the damp February fog, their corrugated metal roofs gleaming under amber security lights.
Hangar 4B was dark, save for a narrow strip of yellow light leaking out from beneath the sliding side door.
Thorne killed the engine a hundred yards away, letting the sedan coast silently to a stop behind a row of empty shipping containers.
“There,” I whispered, pointing toward a rented utility van parked directly outside the side entrance of Hangar 4B. The license plate was registered to a commercial real estate holding firm in Austin—the exact same holding firm tied to Alan Brooks’s secondary corporate filings.
We slipped out of the car, moving with the quiet, deliberate stealth of operatives entering a hostile zone. Every instinct I had honed over seventeen years in the Navy—every tactical drill, every perimeter sweep—flooded back into my muscles.
As we approached the side door, the muffled sound of a man’s voice echoed from within, sharp and panicked.
“...the Feds are already at the country club! What do you mean you can’t wipe the primary server? If the investigators pull the Singapore routing logs, we’re both going away for thirty years!”
I recognized that voice instantly. It wasn't Alan.
It belonged to Richard Vance Jr.—Grant’s cousin and the chief financial officer of the holding firm that had backed Alan’s fraudulent subcontracts.
May you like
Thorne pulled her service weapon, her eyes meeting mine with a silent, resolute nod. I reached out, my fingers curling around the cold metal handle of the side door, and yanked it open.
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