“Appreciate the confidence,” Chris grouses. “Keep me posted.”
The call clicks off, and silence falls heavy between us. I close the laptop, the glow fading from the tent, leaving us in half-darkness.
“They killed them all to clear a route for oil,” I mutter. “An entire village… to save a few thousand dollars.”
Chris looks at me, his jaw clenched and teeth grinding. “And they’ll kill anyone who tries to bring it to light.”
I know what he’s implying.Stay out of it, Reese.Don’t dig any deeper.But he should know me better than that by now. “I can’t stop,” I blurt. “You know I can’t.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, then nods once, resigned. “Then we do it my way.”
It’s after midnight when he sneaks me out of the tent to break into the records room. The base is relatively quiet, save for the occasional distant rhythm of plane engines. Hawk moves like a shadow ahead of me, his eyes taking in every sight along the otherwise memorized route. I stay close, clutching his hand as he drags me behind him.
It is smaller than I expected. It’s essentially a box of concrete walls, steel doors, and no windows. Chris pulls a bypass key he “borrowed” from the command hub earlier today from his pocket to unlock it. After swiping the key card, the click of the latch echoes louder than expected, and he hastily sweeps me through the door.
The air in the room is cold and stale, sending a chill down my spine. Or, maybe it’s my nerves, not the temperature. We make our way down the short hall, and I’m relieved when the tiny admin post we pass is vacant. “Come on.” The clink of a lock echoes down the hallway when Hawk swipes the card again, pushing open a heavy metal door several feet ahead of me. Inside, rows of metal filing cabinets stretch into the dark, punctuated by a single desk covered in disorganized folders and maps.
“Look for anything tied to the pipeline,” I whisper. “Environmental reports, supply manifests, logistics contracts?—”
Chris shoots me an inquisitive look. “You’ve done this before.”
“Investigative Journalism 101,” I deadpan. “Or maybe it was 301.”
“Of course. Investigative Journalism 301: Breaking and Entering to Scoop the Story,” he teases with a tiny smile before moving to the other side of the room. I pull open the nearest cabinet drawer, the beam of my flashlight darting over dates and seals. Every label sounds more ominous than the last: Strategic Expansion Plan, Territorial Reinforcement Directive, Civilian Resettlement Coordination,Resettlement—I swallow hard.
A folder marked Zulu Corridor Operations catches my attention. I slide it free and spread it open on the desk. The documents are all markedCONFIDENTIALand stamped with signatures I can’t decipher. There’s a detailed map, hand-drawn and annotated in neat, sharp handwriting. I trace the red line cutting the country in two. The same red line passesdirectlythrough the coordinates of the village.
Bile rises in my throat. “Chris.”
He’s beside me in seconds, his flashlight steady over the papers. His jaw tightens. “Son of a bitch.”
“This was planned,” I say. “They knew what they were doing.”
He flips through the pages, pulling out another document—a report labeledClearance Phase. His gaze darkens as he skims it. “Troop movements. They sent in a team three days before the massacre.”
“Who authorized it?”
He finds the signature at the bottom. “Colonel James McKenna.”
My pulse stutters. “The commanding officer?”
“Yeah.” His voice is low, dangerous.
The loud click of a door unlatching echoes on the other side of the door, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots stomping down the hall.
“Shit.” Chris’s hand shoots out, snapping the folder shut. “MPs.” He kills the light and grabs my wrist, pulling me between the rows of filing cabinets. The footsteps drawcloser, stopping just outside the room. My pulse races when the lock to the file room clicks and the hinges creak as the door begins to open.
He curses under his breath and yanks me into the closet at the rear of the room, closing it silently behind us. The space is small and dark. I can feel every inch of him pressed against me, the warmth of his body seeping through my clothes. My back hits the wall, and his chest is flush with mine.
A beam of a flashlight slices across the floor under the bottom of the door. Chris presses a finger to my lips, demanding I stay quiet. His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me tighter, and my hand instinctively grips his shirt. His heart beats against my own, slow and steady, even as mine threatens to explode. It takes a full minute before I realize I’m shaking—not from fear, but from the electric awareness of his body pressed against mine. His breath fans hot against my temple, his thumb tracing slow circles at my hip.
The flashlight passes, then fades. The footsteps retreat across the room, but neither of us moves.
“I think they’re gone,” I whisper.
“Shhh...” His jaw brushes my hair back, and I can feel his hesitation and the restraint stretched thin between us. His hand reaches between us, and he pops the button on my pants.
“Chris,” I whisper-shout as he lowers the zipper.
