Chapter 2 - The Missing Files
The veteran’s expression shifted from casual curiosity to something much heavier. He set his beer bottle down on the counter with a dull thud.
“David Vance?” he repeated, lowering his voice. “The same Vance who handled logistics and intelligence for your task force out of Horn Africa?”
“The very same,” I said.
“He didn't just walk away,” the veteran said flatly, shaking his head. “A guy like Vance has codes inside his head that the Pentagon guards with live ammo. If he’s missing, and the official line is that he split, that means someone up top wants him buried quietly.”
“Or someone forced him to run,” I corrected.
Pete leaned over the bar, wiping a dry rag in circles. “Captain, if the brass is calling it a voluntary desertion or a personal disappearance, you’re fighting the whole machine. You can’t just walk into a base and ask for his records.”
“I’m not going to ask,” I replied, pulling a small, encrypted drive from my pocket and setting it next to my glass. “I’m going to look at what he left behind before he vanished.”
The veteran whistled softly, staring at the drive. “You’ve already got something of his?”
“Not yet,” I admitted. “His apartment in Norfolk was completely cleaned out by local police before I could get there. The landlord said federal agents took everything within two hours of his disappearance being reported. But David knew how things worked. He had a safe house out near the salt marshes—a place only a few of us knew about.”
“The old crab shack on Miller’s Point,” Pete said suddenly.
I looked up sharply. “You know it?”
“Used to,” Pete said, his eyes narrowing in thought. “Place hasn't been used in years, but about a month ago, I saw a black Ford SUV heading down that private access road. Looked like government plates, but muddy. Muddy enough to hide the numbers.”
That matched the timeline. David had sent me an encrypted message three weeks ago—just three words: Check the ledger.
Before I could press Pete for more details about the SUV, my phone vibrated on the wooden counter. It wasn't a standard ringtone; it was a secure burst signal linked to a burner number I had set up specifically for this trip.
I picked it up and swiped the screen.
An unknown caller ID flashed, followed by a text message containing a single address in downtown Norfolk and a photo attachment.
May you like
I tapped the attachment. It was a picture of my own car parked outside the bar, taken less than ten minutes ago.
Below the photo was a text: You’re looking for a ghost, Captain. But someone is already looking for you.
