Chapter 15 - The Military Mark
The padlock on the furnace crawlspace was heavy brass, brand new and industrial grade. I didn't bother asking for a key. I went to my old workbench in the garage, grabbed a forty-inch crowbar, and pried the hasp clean off the wood frame with two violent thrusts.
Lauren stood at the top of the basement stairs, clutching the railing, watching in terrified silence. Tyler stayed three steps behind me, holding a flashlight with shaking hands.
Inside the cramped, dirt-floored crawlspace sat four heavy-duty Pelican hard cases—the exact kind used by military contractors to transport secure field communications and encrypted avionics components. Stenciled in faded yellow lettering across the top lid was a serial number and a unit insignia I recognized immediately:
*3rd Battalion, 12th Logistics Support Group.*
My former command post at Fort Bragg.
"My God," I muttered under my breath, my pulse thumping against my temples.
Julian Vance wasn't a random civilian drifter who seduced lonely military wives. He was connected to the black-market supply ring that NCIS and Army CID had spent eighteen months hunting down before our unit was deployed to Europe. During my final months overseas, three sergeants from our sister battalion had been quietly detained for missing tactical communications gear.
I popped the heavy latches of the first case. Inside lay six encrypted handheld transceivers, packed securely in custom military foam, alongside three high-grade satellite positioning relays.
"Dad," Tyler whispered from behind me, the beam of his flashlight bouncing off the matte green equipment. "He texted my old burner phone five minutes ago. While you were breaking the lock."
I turned around slowly, my voice deadly calm. "What did he say?"
May you like
Tyler turned his phone screen toward me.
*Tell your father I have forty-eight hours to deliver those four cases to the warehouse in Wilmington. If NCIS gets called, your social security number and your signature are on every shipping manifest since last August. You take the fall, kid. Not me.*
