Chapter 8 - The Night They Came for Emma
Darkness changes everything.
A hallway you know becomes a tunnel.
A friend becomes a silhouette.
A sound becomes a threat.
The lights went out.
I grabbed Emma before she could move.
“Down.”
Old training returned before thought.
Mercer moved toward the wall.
Grant drew her weapon.
Emergency lights flickered red at the end of the corridor.
Then we heard a door slam.
Footsteps.
Running.
Not toward us.
Away.
Grant spoke into her radio.
No response.
“Comms are down.”
“Building power?”
Mercer asked.
“Looks intentional.”
Emma crouched beside me.
Her hand was closed around Rebecca's bracelet.
“Give me that.”
“No.”
“Emma.”
“They want it.”
“Exactly.”
“So if it's on me, they have to come through me.”
“That is the exact opposite of what I want.”
Despite everything, she almost smiled.
Then a fire alarm exploded overhead.
Doors began opening.
Cadets, families, staff.
Confusion poured into the hallway.
Perfect cover.
Grant swore.
“Stay together.”
We moved toward a secure stairwell.
Halfway there, a man in military police gear appeared around the corner.
“General Mercer! This way.”
Grant stopped.
“What unit?”
He hesitated.
Wrong answer.
Grant raised her weapon.
“Hands!”
The man ran.
I moved without thinking.
So did my knee.
It reminded me I was fifty-five years old.
I made three steps before pain nearly folded me.
Mercer caught my arm.
“Let Grant handle it.”
“I hate being old.”
“You were reckless young too.”
Grant disappeared around the corner.
Seconds later, shouting.
Then silence.
She returned.
“Gone.”
“How?”
“Service exit.”
“Was he military?”
“No idea.”
We reached a secured office.
Backup power came on five minutes later.
Emma immediately inspected the bracelet.
“There has to be something inside.”
“We wait for a lab.”
She looked at me.
“The last lab transfer got hijacked.”
Fair point.
Grant examined it.
“We can open it here, documented on video.”
Emma placed it on the table.
Grant recorded everything.
She cut one stitch.
Then another.
Pulled the leather layers apart.
Inside was a narrow plastic sleeve.
And a tiny metal disk.
A second data module.
For twenty-seven years, Holloway's evidence had survived.
Not because the Army protected it.
Because two women did.
Holloway's mother.
And my wife.
Grant looked at me.
“Any idea what's on it?”
“No.”
They brought in a secure digital forensics technician.
The module used an obsolete interface.
For nearly an hour, nothing worked.
Then the technician found an archived adapter.
The computer screen flickered.
Three files appeared.
A communications log.
An audio file.
A scanned image.
Mercer stood behind me.
Emma stood beside me.
Grant opened the audio file.
Static.
Then voices.
Young voices.
Ours.
A communications operator.
Then Voss.
“Confirm Blackwood as updated recovery site.”
Another voice.
Colonel Pike.
“Confirmed.”
Voss said, “Sir, Mercer's code was used on the initial redirect.”
“I know.”
“You authorized it?”
“That's not your concern.”
“Sir, if something goes wrong—”
“Nothing will go wrong.”
The recording crackled.
Then Pike's voice again.
“Ridge Aviation needs the corridor clear for forty minutes.”
Mercer whispered, “Ridge.”
Blackridge's predecessor.
The contractor.
Voss sounded nervous.
“What are they moving?”
Pike replied.
“Equipment.”
“What kind?”
“Captain, this conversation is over.”
Then another voice.
Lang.
“You want me to erase the redirect?”
Silence.
Pike answered.
“Yes.”
Emma looked at me.
Lang.
Paid.
There it was.
The recording continued.
Then chaos.
Reports of the crash.
My team's call.
Requests for evacuation.
And then Voss.
His voice shaking.
“Sir, rescue is moving toward Carter's position.”
Pike said, “Redirect them.”
Voss protested.
“There are wounded men out there.”
“Redirect them.”
“Why?”
“Because if recovery crews enter that corridor now, they will see Ridge's aircraft.”
“Sir—”
“Do it.”
Voss breathed hard.
Then:
“Understood.”
The second extraction coordinate change.
The one that delayed rescue.
The one that cost lives.
Voss had done it.
But under Pike's order.
Mercer gripped the table.
“Those bastards.”
Grant opened the scanned image.
A cargo manifest.
Ridge Tactical Aviation.
Blackwood corridor.
Listed cargo: communications equipment.
But handwritten beneath it was another notation.
Prototype guidance systems.
Export authorization pending.
Mercer understood first.
“They were moving controlled technology.”
“Without authorization?” Emma asked.
“Looks that way.”
Pike had used a military operation to clear airspace so a private contractor could move restricted equipment.
A corrupt operation.
Maybe for money.
Maybe influence.
Maybe both.
And my team had flown directly into the consequences.
Grant opened the communications log.
Payment references.
Initials.
P.L.
Peter Lang.
A.V.
Adrian Voss.
Then another set.
W.P.
Warren Pike.
Voss had taken money.
Lang had taken money.
Pike had orchestrated it.
But something didn't fit.
“If Voss was paid,” Emma said, “why is he running now?”
Mercer answered.
“Because exposure means prison.”
“Then why threaten us instead of disappearing?”
“Maybe he didn't.”
We all looked at her.
“What?”
I asked.
Emma pointed at the message on her phone.
“The sender knew Mom gave me the bracelet.”
“So?”
“How would Voss know that?”
Nobody answered.
Rebecca had hidden that fact.
Even I didn't know.
Who did?
Someone who knew Rebecca.
Someone who had access to our family.
Someone close enough to know what she hid.
My phone rang.
Same unknown number as before.
I answered.
“Carter.”
Peter Lang.
“You found the second device.”
Not a question.
“How do you know?”
“You need to listen carefully.”
“Where is Voss?”
“With me.”
The room went still.
“What?”
“He contacted me after the ceremony.”
“Why?”
“Because he's scared.”
“Of prison?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Lang whispered.
“Of the man who ordered your truck searched.”
“Pike is dead.”
“I know.”
“Then who?”
“His son.”
Mercer frowned.
“Pike didn't have a son.”
“Yes, he did.”
“No. He had one daughter. Allison.”
Lang laughed without humor.
“Not legally.”
A new voice came onto the call.
Voss.
“Thomas.”
My jaw tightened.
“Adrian.”
“You need to get Emma out.”
“Why?”
“Because Rebecca figured out who Pike's illegitimate son was before she died.”
My blood ran cold.
“Who?”
Voss said the name.
And for several seconds I refused to believe him.
Because I had known that man for seventeen years.
He had eaten Thanksgiving dinner in my home.
He had helped Emma learn to ride a bicycle.
After Rebecca died, he'd called me every week for a year.
He had helped me buy my first Freightliner.
He was my dispatcher.
My business partner.
My best friend.
“Ray Sullivan,” Voss said.
And at that exact moment, Emma's phone rang.
May you like
Caller ID:
UNCLE RAY.
