Chapter 9 - The Officer Who Betrayed Us
Nathaniel was placed on temporary administrative leave before noon.
His flight status was suspended.
His security clearance was frozen.
He surrendered his access card and service weapon to investigators while I sat in a hospital room having the graze wound along my ribs cleaned.
The bullet had never touched me.
A fragment of metal from the platform had.
It required eight stitches.
My mother still managed to leave another scar.
Caleb occupied a room down the hall.
He had a fractured cheekbone, two cracked ribs and a concussion. The masked men claimed they had been paid through a consulting company linked to Parker Strategic Development.
They refused to name my mother directly.
She was charged with kidnapping, aggravated assault, fraud and attempted murder connected to Thomas Vale.
Yet she remained confident.
Because she had not acted alone.
Nathaniel entered my hospital room wearing civilian clothes.
I had rarely seen him without some piece of his military identity. Even on weekends, he carried himself like a pilot.
Today his shoulders looked heavier.
“What happened?” I asked.
“They think I copied the Al-Hadid report.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then how did she get it?”
“They believe I may have accessed it from home.”
“You didn’t.”
“I know.”
He sat beside the bed.
“The login came from my account.”
“Her insider used your credentials.”
“Possibly.”
“Who is the colonel?”
Nathaniel looked toward the closed door.
“Colonel Marcus Ward.”
The name was familiar.
He had attended the wedding.
A tall man with silver hair who toasted Nathaniel during the rehearsal dinner.
“He was at the chapel.”
“He was my former squadron commander.”
“Did he work on the Al-Hadid investigation?”
“He supervised the preliminary review.”
My stomach tightened.
“Could he access your report?”
“Yes.”
“Was he involved in procurement?”
“Indirectly.”
“Then he is the leak.”
“We need proof.”
I thought of my mother’s hidden room.
The photographs.
The hard drives.
The red marks beside the names of dead service members.
“There may be proof in the basement.”
“Federal agents seized everything.”
“Will they tell us what they find?”
“Eventually.”
“Eventually could destroy your career.”
Nathaniel looked at me.
“This is not your responsibility.”
“It became my responsibility when my mother framed you.”
“No. It became a criminal investigation.”
“You defended me.”
“I am your husband.”
“And I am your wife.”
He almost smiled.
Then someone knocked.
Colonel Ward entered.
He wore service dress, his ribbons perfectly aligned. He carried a bouquet of white roses.
My blood went cold.
“Lieutenant,” he said warmly. “I am relieved to see you safe.”
Nathaniel stood.
“Sir.”
Ward placed the flowers near the window.
“I heard about the factory. Terrible business.”
His gaze dropped briefly to my bandaged side.
“Your mother appears to be a deeply disturbed woman.”
“She named you,” I said.
Nathaniel turned toward me.
Ward’s expression did not change.
“I’m sorry?”
“She said the colonel knew I recorded everything.”
“There are many colonels.”
“You were at the wedding.”
“So were several hundred people.”
“One hundred and twelve.”
He smiled.
“Then your memory remains excellent.”
Nathaniel stepped closer.
“Sir, why are you here?”
“To offer support.”
“My access has been suspended under an investigation you helped initiate.”
“I did not initiate it.”
“But you approved it.”
Ward sighed.
“Nathaniel, classified documents were found in a civilian residence connected to your wife’s family. You understand the seriousness.”
“They were stolen.”
“That remains to be proven.”
“And if your credentials were used?”
“My credentials are secure.”
Ward studied him.
“That confidence may be misplaced.”
I watched the exchange.
Ward spoke like my mother.
Not in tone.
In structure.
He answered questions by shifting blame.
He used concern as a weapon.
“You knew about the counterfeit equipment,” I said.
His eyes moved toward me.
“This is not an appropriate conversation for a hospital room.”
“You buried Nathaniel’s report.”
“I forwarded it through proper channels.”
“To whom?”
“Lieutenant, you are currently a potential subject in a federal fraud case. I advise caution.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It is professional advice.”
Nathaniel opened the door.
“I think you should leave, sir.”
Ward’s face hardened.
“Be careful, Captain. Loyalty to a spouse does not excuse disloyalty to your oath.”
Nathaniel held his gaze.
“My oath is exactly why you should be worried.”
Ward left.
I waited until his footsteps disappeared.
“He brought white roses.”
Nathaniel looked at them.
“So?”
“That was the phrase I used to signal the tactical team.”
“Many people know the wedding flowers were white.”
“But only police knew it was the signal.”
His expression sharpened.
Unless my mother had told Ward.
Or Ward had been listening to the operation.
Deputy Monroe arrived twenty minutes later.
When we told her, she checked the hospital cameras.
Ward had entered through a staff corridor without signing in.
He had used a federal identification badge registered to someone else.
More troubling, the bouquet contained a listening device.
The transmitter was hidden beneath the floral wrapping.
Ward had come to determine what we knew.
The device was still active.
Deputy Monroe smiled grimly.
“Then perhaps we should let him hear something useful.”
We staged a conversation.
Nathaniel and I spoke loudly about a fictional backup drive that Caleb had hidden at our honeymoon hotel. We claimed it contained the financial records and the original Al-Hadid report.
Within forty minutes, federal agents reported movement.
A man entered the hotel room using a stolen maintenance key.
He found an empty laptop bag.
The man was arrested.
His name was Major Owen Price.
He worked in military procurement.
And inside his pocket was a handwritten note.
RECOVER DRIVE.
REMOVE HAYES.
The note was signed with the initials M.W.
Colonel Marcus Ward was taken into custody that evening.
But before investigators reached his office, someone erased three years of files from the military network.
Someone with higher access than Ward.
Nathaniel read the report twice.
“Ward wasn’t the top of it,” he said.
“No.”
“Then who was?”
My phone rang.
It was Aunt Rebecca.
Her voice shook.
“Anna, Thomas is awake enough to speak.”
I sat up.
“What did he say?”
“He said your mother worked for someone before she created the foundation.”
“Who?”
Rebecca began crying.
“Your grandfather.”
May you like
My mother’s father, Senator Arthur Vale, had died eleven years earlier.
At least, that was what our family had always believed.
