PART 2 FULL — THE MEN WAITING AT THE AIRPORT

That sentence hit harder than anything Sheriff Cole had said.

Rook saw my face.

“What?”

I put the call on speaker.

Monroe continued.

“We’re considering the possibility that this reaches beyond local law enforcement.”

“How far beyond?”

“We don’t know.”

“What about Cameron Voss?”

“Do not approach him.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“His father has attorneys contacting federal offices already. They claim Cameron is being targeted by an unstable military operative.”

Rook laughed once.

“Fast lawyers.”

Monroe heard him.

“I assume your former teammates are with you.”

“Yes.”

“Tell them this is not an operation.”

Rook leaned toward the phone.

“With respect, ma’am, nobody brought ammunition.”

Monroe paused.

“That does not reassure me.”

Despite everything, Santos smiled.

Then Monroe said, “Go to the location I’m sending you. Come alone.”

A text arrived.

An address.

An abandoned municipal maintenance building eighteen miles away.

Rook read it.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

Monroe heard him again.

“Sergeant Mercer?”

“Yes?”

“If I wanted him dead, I wouldn’t send coordinates through a federal encrypted relay.”

Rook looked impressed.

“She’s fun.”

The line disconnected.

I looked at my team.

“I’m going.”

“All four of us are going,” Rook said.

“She said alone.”

“And my mother told me not to smoke.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“Exactly. Sometimes I listen.”

Thirty minutes later, we pulled into a deserted maintenance yard.

Rook remained two blocks away with Santos and Pike.

I went inside alone.

Agent Monroe was waiting beside a folding table.

Early forties.

Dark hair pulled back.

Gray suit.

No nonsense in her eyes.

Beside her stood a younger agent.

On the table sat photographs.

A lot of photographs.

Emily.

Cameron Voss.

Sheriff Cole.

Several deputies.

And men I didn’t recognize.

Monroe didn’t shake my hand.

“Your wife is secure.”

“Where?”

“She’s being moved to a federal medical facility.”

“Can I see her?”

“When we finish.”

I wanted to argue.

Instead I looked at the photographs.

“What is this?”

Monroe slid one toward me.

Cameron leaving a nightclub.

Another.

Cameron entering an office building.

Another.

A girl being helped into an ambulance.

Another.

Sheriff Cole speaking to Cameron’s father.

Richard Voss.

Sixty-two.

Real-estate billionaire.

Political donor.

Owner of half the luxury developments around Richmond.

Monroe tapped the table.

“During the last seven years, Cameron Voss has been named in nine assault complaints.”

“Nine?”

“Seven disappeared before charges were filed. One victim recanted. One left the state.”

“And Emily witnessed number ten.”

“Yes.”

“So he sent men after her.”

“That’s what we believed.”

“Believed?”

Monroe slid another photograph toward me.

It showed the black sedan Emily had photographed outside our house.

Clear license plate.

“Vehicle belongs to a shell corporation registered in Delaware.”

“Owned by Voss?”

“No.”

“Cole?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

Monroe looked at me.

“The federal government.”

I stared at her.

“What?”

“The sedan is assigned to a confidential investigative unit.”

My first thought was that she was lying.

My second was worse.

“You were watching Emily?”

“Not my unit.”

“Whose?”

“We’re still determining that.”

“You expect me to believe the same black sedan that followed my wife belongs to federal investigators?”

“I expect you to understand why your general contacted us instead of local authorities.”

I leaned over the table.

“My wife was terrorized for three weeks.”

“I know.”

“Did your people put that note on her car?”

“No.”

“Then somebody using federal resources did.”

Monroe didn’t answer.

That was answer enough.

I looked at another photograph.

The sheriff’s cruiser Emily had captured outside the house.

Monroe pushed a document toward me.

“That unit number does not exist.”

“I already heard that from Cole.”

“The vehicle exists. The number doesn’t.”

I looked up.

“Explain.”

“It’s a retired cruiser sold at auction eleven months ago.”

“Registered to?”

“Another shell company.”

“Voss?”

“No.”

“Federal?”

Monroe hesitated.

“Defense contractor.”

My mouth went dry.

“What contractor?”

She turned another photograph around.

A logo on a warehouse.

A black circle crossed by three silver lines.

I knew that symbol.

I had seen it overseas.

On equipment crates.

Aircraft.

Encrypted communications systems.

“Blackridge Solutions,” I said.

Monroe studied me.

“You know them.”

“They handled logistics for joint operations.”

“Only logistics?”

I didn’t answer.

Blackridge had always existed at the edges of missions.

Never officially involved.

Yet somehow always nearby.

Transportation.

Drones.

Secure compounds.

Contract personnel whose names never appeared on rosters.

Then Monroe placed one final photograph on the table.

My chest tightened.

The picture showed a man entering Blackridge headquarters six months earlier.

Brigadier General Marcus Hale.

The man who had sent me home.

Monroe watched my reaction.

“You recognize him.”

“Yes.”

“He’s your commanding officer.”

“Yes.”

“Why would your commanding officer meet privately with Blackridge’s executive board?”

“Maybe military contracts.”

“Four times?”

I looked at her.

She continued.

“No documented meetings. No official procurement schedule. No security logs filed through the Pentagon.”

I felt something shift beneath everything I thought I knew.

“Hale told me he contacted federal investigators.”

“He contacted me personally.”

“So why are you showing me this?”

“Because three hours after he called, someone accessed the FBI case system using credentials belonging to an agent who died fourteen months ago.”

Silence.

Rain struck the metal roof.

Slow.

Steady.

Monroe lowered her voice.

“Someone searched Emily Dean.”

My hands curled into fists.

“From where?”

“Pentagon network.”

That was impossible.

Or I wanted it to be.

My phone vibrated.

Emily.

I answered immediately.

“Em?”

For a moment there was only breathing.

Then her voice.

Weak.

Drugged.

But alive.

“Blake?”

Every wall inside me cracked.

“I’m here.”

“You came home.”

“I’m home.”

She started crying.

I closed my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“I should’ve listened.”

“No. None of this is because of you.”

“They kept asking.”

My eyes opened.

“Who?”

“The men.”

Monroe moved closer.

“What did they ask?”

Emily’s breathing shook.

“They kept asking where you kept it.”

I froze.

“Kept what?”

“I told them I didn’t know.”

“What did they say?”

She struggled to remember.

“One man said… ‘Dean brought something back from Syria.’”