I lifted the chain with two fingers, slid it free, and eased the gate open just far enough to slip through. The hinges had been oiled recently. That detail bothered me more than the tire marks.

The relay station was a gray concrete block with one steel door and no windows. The door was ajar. I stood beside it and listened. I heard the hum of a generator and, faintly, a rhythmic metallic scraping, like someone dragging a crate across a floor.

I pushed the door with my boot.

The interior smelled of motor oil and old dust. Rack after rack of communications equipment lined the walls, but the center of the room had been cleared, and in that open space sat a row of green military crates stacked three high.

I counted twelve. Each one was stenciled with a unit marking I recognized, because it was my own.

I crossed to the nearest crate and thumbed the latch. Inside, nested in foam, were encrypted field radios still sealed in factory plastic, the same model our company had reported missing from inventory six weeks ago. I had signed that report myself. Sergeant Price had told me, with the patient smile he used on everything I said, that the loss was probably a clerical error.

It had not been a clerical error.

The scraping started again behind me.

I turned. In the far corner, half hidden behind a rack of servers, a man in a gray maintenance jumpsuit sat on the floor with his wrists bound to a pipe. A strip of tape covered his mouth. He was perhaps fifty, with a salt-and-pepper beard and the stunned look of someone who had been awake for too long. He was kicking his heel against the concrete to get my attention.

I knelt and peeled the tape away as gently as I could.

“Thank God,” he whispered. “Are you with them?”

“With who?”

“The ones who brought the truck.”

“No.” I worked at the cord around his wrists with my good hand. “Who are you?”

“Harlan Brooks. Facilities contractor. I came to check the backup generator Monday and they were already here.” He swallowed. “Three men in uniform. They said it was classified. One of them took my phone and told me to sit still.”

“Did you get names?”

“The big one was called Price.”

My hands stopped moving.

Harlan stared at me. “You know him.”

“He’s my sergeant.” I finished the knot and the cord fell away. “Three hours ago he helped throw me out of a helicopter.”

Harlan rubbed his wrists and said nothing for a moment. Then he laughed once, a dry and disbelieving sound. “Well. That explains why you’re soaked.”

I almost smiled. “Is there a working landline here?”

“The rack by the door.” He pointed. “Handset’s gray. It runs on a separate line from the radio network, so they couldn’t cut it without killing the generator feed. They told me to stay away from it.”

I crossed the room and lifted the receiver.

There was a dial tone.

I dialed the number for operations from memory, and the line rang four times. Then a man’s voice answered, tired and clipped.

“Operations desk.”

“This is Lieutenant Mara Quinn, Delta Company. I’m at the relay station on the north reservoir. I need to speak to Colonel Whitaker immediately.”

There was a pause. Then keys clicked.

“Lieutenant Quinn, I’m showing your aircraft reported you lost overboard forty minutes ago. A search is being organized.”

My stomach turned cold. “Lost overboard. That is what they reported?”

“Sergeant Price filed the incident. He said you fell during a turbulence event and he’s requesting authorization to continue to the landing zone.”

“They are lying. I was pushed. I am alive, and I need the colonel now.”

The line went silent for three full seconds.

“Stand by,” the operator said, with a different tone altogether.

I turned to Harlan. “Where does the truck road lead?”

He pointed out the east wall. “Straight to the highway, six miles.”

“And the helicopter?”

“It landed a half mile south, past the ridge. I heard it. I think they’re walking in.”

Which meant they were coming for the crates, and for me, in that order.

On the other end of the line, a click, and then a deep, steady voice. “Quinn, this is Whitaker. Tell me exactly what happened. Slowly.”

I opened my mouth to answer.

The door behind me swung inward, and a shadow filled the frame.

Chapter 3 – What Price Wanted

The shadow was Eric Voss.

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