The lights went out.
Chapter Seven
Emergency lighting flooded the corridor red.
One of the investigators shouted, “Movement!”
A door slammed somewhere outside.
Rodriguez ran first.
Elena followed.
They reached the supply floor as a figure disappeared through the eastern exit.
Rodriguez pursued.
Elena drew her weapon but did not fire.
The figure crossed the loading area.
Fast.
Dark clothing.
Baseball cap.
Rodriguez closed the distance.
The person reached a parked utility cart, jumped in, and accelerated.
Rodriguez grabbed the side rail.
The cart swerved.
He was thrown against stacked pallets and hit the concrete hard.
“Elena!”
She stopped beside him.
“Go!”
The cart vanished around the far building.
One investigator called security with the vehicle description.
Elena crouched beside Rodriguez.
“You hit your head?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Cosmetic.”
She helped him sit up.
He smiled weakly.
“You always this pleasant under pressure?”
“Ask my staff.”
“I’m afraid to.”
Despite everything, Elena nearly laughed.
Then Rodriguez’s expression changed.
“Admiral.”
“What?”
“The person driving.”
“You saw them?”
“Not the face.”
“What?”
“The hand.”
Elena waited.
“They were wearing a class ring.”
“Which class?”
“West Point.”
“That narrows it to several thousand people.”
Rodriguez shook his head.
“Black stone. Gold border. Broken lower corner.”
Voss had caught up.
He stopped.
Rodriguez looked at him.
Voss stared back.
Elena saw the recognition.
“What?”
Neither answered.
“What?”
Voss spoke.
“General Marcus Vale.”
Elena knew the name.
Everyone in uniform did.
Four-star general.
Former commander of Joint Strategic Readiness.
Retired eighteen months ago.
Currently a civilian adviser to the Department of Defense.
A man who appeared on television whenever the country needed someone with silver hair and a reassuring voice to explain war.
Rodriguez continued.
“Vale wore that ring for decades. His father gave it to him. It was damaged in Iraq.”
Elena looked toward the road where the vehicle had vanished.
“You’re telling me a retired four-star general was driving a maintenance cart across this base?”
“No.”
Rodriguez stood carefully.
“I’m telling you someone wants us to think he was.”
Elena nodded.
“Exactly.”
Voss stared at her.
“You don’t think it was Vale?”
“I think whoever is behind Nightglass understands misdirection.”
She remembered David’s words.
Don’t chase the story they leave you. Chase the person who benefits from you believing it.
The cart was found twelve minutes later.
Abandoned.
Inside lay a West Point ring.
Black stone.
Gold border.
Broken lower corner.
Too perfect.
Elena did not touch it.
“Bag it.”
The investigator nodded.
Voss paced.
“This has Vale all over it.”
“No,” Elena said.
“It’s his ring.”
“It’s a ring.”
“Rodriguez recognized it.”
“That is precisely why it was visible.”
Rodriguez frowned.
“You think someone knew I’d identify it?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Elena looked at both men.
“That’s the question.”
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
No one spoke.
Then breathing.
Slow.
Controlled.
“Elena Vance?”
Male voice.
Digitally distorted.
“Yes.”
“Your husband should have stopped.”
Elena’s grip tightened.
“But he didn’t,” she said.
“No.”
“And neither will I.”
A pause.
“You think this is about three unstable soldiers and an abusive captain.”
Elena stared across the dark compound.
“Tell me what it’s about.”
The voice laughed.
“Control.”
The call ended.
Forensic tracing failed.
Two minutes later, another report came over security radio.
A fire had started in records storage.
Elena looked at Voss.
“Convenient.”
They ran.
The fire was contained before it spread far.
But one cabinet had been destroyed.
Only one.
Personnel evaluations.
Years of them.
The files for Holloway, Beck, and Cho were gone.
So were Hammer’s.
Rodriguez stood near the smoking cabinet.
“They’re cleaning.”
“No,” Elena said.
He looked at her.
“They’re editing.”
She examined the room.
Water dripped from the sprinkler system.
Smoke hung beneath the ceiling.
Whoever had started the fire knew exactly which cabinet mattered.
Which meant access.
Authority.
Knowledge.
Someone embedded inside the base.
Elena turned to Voss.
“Who knew Room 17 still existed?”
“Me. Rodriguez.”
“Anyone else?”
Voss hesitated.
“My executive officer may have known the corridor existed.”
“Name.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Grace Mercer.”
“Where is she?”
Voss reached for his phone.
Before he could dial, a security officer entered.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“We can’t locate Lieutenant Colonel Mercer.”
Voss stared.
Elena’s eyes narrowed.
There it was.
The obvious suspect.
Too obvious.
Again.
“Lock the gates,” Elena said.
“They’re already locked.”
“Then she’s still here.”
The security officer looked uncomfortable.
“Ma’am…”
“What?”
“Her vehicle left at 1710.”
Elena glanced at the clock.
That was twenty minutes after Hammer had been detained.
“Destination?”
“She signed out for medical appointment.”
“Where?”
“No destination listed.”
Voss cursed.
Elena said nothing.
She thought of the anonymous printer.
The blackmail.
The fire.
The planted ring.
Someone was not merely reacting to the investigation.
They were directing it.
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