Chapter 6 - The Federal Inquiry
The ping on my phone didn't stop at a single notification. Within thirty seconds, three separate emails dropped into my encrypted inbox, all bearing the crisp letterhead of the federal contracting office attached to the Department of Defense.
Marcus looked up from his terminal, wiping his palms on his jeans. "Mara, you seeing this? That inquiry isn't a routine vendor pitch. They're asking for full compliance documentation on our secure architecture protocols. Specifically, the quantum-encryption handshakes we designed for our remote logistics clients."
I stared at the screen, the blue light reflecting off my glasses. This wasn't just a random business opportunity. The timing was too precise. The municipal utility injunction had barely hit my family’s real estate firm downtown before federal procurement officers were knocking on my virtual door.
"They're looking for a replacement," I said quietly, scrolling through the attachment.
"A replacement for whom?" Marcus asked, leaning over the workbench.
"For Mercer Defense Tech," I replied. "Or whatever shell corporations are left standing after the audit fallout. If the government is cutting ties with compromised defense contractors, they need clean, verified domestic providers who can step into the supply chain without breaking the national security grid. And Pinebridge Systems just popped up on their radar because we bypassed a state-level utility squeeze in under an hour."
Marcus whistled softly. "That’s big-league, Mara. That’s multi-million-dollar federal tier stuff. Are we ready for that?"
"We've been ready for two years," I said. "We just haven't had the open door."
Before Marcus could answer, the glass door of the warehouse slid open. A sharp gust of cool autumn air swept in off the asphalt, followed by the sound of firm footsteps clicking against the concrete floor.
I looked up, expecting a courier or perhaps another late-night engineer. Instead, standing near the entrance with his hands tucked into the pockets of a tailored wool coat, was Caleb.
He didn't look like the confident brother who had mocked my bedroom workshop earlier that week. His tie was loose, his hair was messy, and the expensive fabric of his suit looked like it had been slept in. He stared around the massive, humming commercial flex-space—the clean-room benching, the server racks, the professional layout—with a look of hollow, absolute shock.
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"You actually built all this," Caleb said, his voice barely louder than the hum of the servers. It wasn't an accusation anymore. It was the sound of a worldview shattering.
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