Chapter 6 - The Weight of Orders
The frosted glass of the door cast distorted shapes against the gray wall of Room 302 as heavy combat boots paused just outside. My hand tightened around the hilt of my blade, the adrenaline sharp and clean in my veins. Beside me, Colonel Henderson reached inside his coat, his expression grim as he drew a compact sidearm with practiced silence.
We had maybe ten seconds before they breached.
“They aren't here to assassinate us, Alexis,” Henderson murmured, his eyes fixed on the doorknob. “If Meridian Security wanted us dead, they would have dropped a mortar through this roof or called in a local strike team. They want the ledger. And they want to know who else you’ve talked to.”
“Then we don't wait for them to kick it in,” I whispered back.
I didn't move toward the door. Instead, I stepped across the room to the grimy window overlooking the dark water of the harbor. Below us, a corrugated metal fire escape zigzagged down the side of the decaying brick building into a narrow, trash-strewn alleyway. It was loud, risky, and completely unpredictable—which meant they wouldn't be watching it yet.
“The ledger,” I said, pointing at the battered leather book on the desk. “We take it. If Crawford’s private army is running black-market equipment using active-duty Marines as cover, that book is the paper trail that brings down the entire corporate shell game.”
Henderson grabbed the ledger, tucked it securely inside his coat, and gave me a sharp nod. “Move.”
I slammed my shoulder against the window latch, shattering the brittle, painted-over frame in a sharp explosion of glass. Without hesitation, I vaulted through the opening, dropping hard onto the metal grating of the fire escape just as the heavy thud of a battering ram echoed from the hallway inside Room 302.
The door splintered open with a deafening crash behind us.
I didn't look back. I flew down the rusted stairs, my boots clanging against the metal with rhythmic precision, Henderson right behind me. As we hit the alley pavement, a flashlight beam cut through the dark from the opposite end, accompanied by a sharp shout: “Stop right there! Federal authority—hands where we can see them!”
Federal authority. Not local police. Not base MPs. Meridian Security was using legitimate-looking federal credentials to cover their private clean-up operations.
“Through the rail car,” I hissed, grabbing Henderson’s sleeve and yanking him toward an abandoned industrial siding where an old freight car sat rusting between two warehouses.
We scrambled into the shadow of the rusted car just as two armed figures in unmarked tactical gear sprinted past the mouth of the alley, their flashlights sweeping back and forth across the asphalt. We held our breath, pressing flat against the cold metal until the heavy thud of their boots faded down the block toward Wharf Street.
When the alley fell silent again, Henderson let out a slow, controlled breath and pulled the leather ledger from his jacket.
“That was too close,” Henderson said quietly. “They aren't just tracking signals anymore. They’re hunting anyone connected to David Vance.”
“Which means David is still alive,” I said, my mind locking onto the logical conclusion. “If they already had the ledger and knew where we were, they wouldn't need to chase us across town. They’re looking for David because he took something else—something even more damaging than a logistics log.”
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Henderson stared at me in the dim light of the alley. “What could be worse than an itemized list of illegal arms diversions?”
“The financial trail,” I said. “The names of the civilian executives and defense contractors who funded the whole operation. And I know the one person in Oakhaven who holds the key to unlocking those corporate bank accounts.”
