"Staff Sergeant Hart, I wanted to inform you that Captain Jason Bryan is up for promotion to Major." She sets the folder on my desk, and I resist the urge to shove it onto the floor. "You'll be contacted within the next week for an interview regarding his command abilities and past missions under his leadership—standard procedure." The last bit she says with a smile, and it makes me want to vomit.
The nausea rolls around my belly, threatening violence, and for a moment my voice won't work properly. When it finally does, the response comes out more controlled than the rage building behind it. "Understood, ma'am. I'll make myself available for the interview."
"Good." Mitchell nods and starts to move on to the next desk, oblivious to the fact that she just gave me Bryan's entire motive for eliminating our team. "Keep up the excellent work on the taskforce reports."
"Ma'am," I say out of respect, but rage is vibrating through every cell in my body. Six of my teammates are dead now. I can't blame it on anyone but Jason Bryan. Jace may have pulled the trigger, but he isn't the one to blame. He was doing a job he's been paid to do and nothing more. And now that he knows the truth, he's offered to help me.
Still, six out of twelve subordinates from one mission, all dead within two months? That should raise red flags and trigger investigation. People should question whether somethingconnects their deaths beyond coincidence. But it won't, because the military protects its own and Bryan has friends in positions high enough to bury any inquiry before it gains traction. Even if they send out these folders with information and an invitation to a formal review of Bryan's whole team and they find out half of us are dead, they will never question it.
Which means the evidence I'm about to steal is the only chance at stopping him before he climbs higher and becomes even more untouchable.
The afternoon crawls forward agonizingly. I can't focus on anything, though the normal network is online and functional. I try to look like I'm doing something but I'm staring into space, freaking out about what has to be done. My palms are sweaty and my hands shake, and there's nothing I can do about it but keep working.
The Compartmented Records Identity Program sits behind layers of classified access and security protocols designed to keep special forces personnel invisible to anyone trying to track them. CRIP holds everything—current assignments, addresses, contact numbers, financial information, even emergency protocols for operators in the field who need extraction or support.
Access requires high-level clearance that I technically have but am not supposed to use outside of specific taskforce operations. Using it to locate former squad members and Captain Bryan himself constitutes misuse of classified systems at minimum, potentially espionage depending on how aggressively they want to prosecute. Either way, the moment I breach that system, my career is over and my freedom becomes dependent on staying ahead of whoever they send to bring me in. Because they willsend someone, and if Bryan learns it was me who accessed it, they'll escalate it to the highest level immediately.
His secrets are too valuable to be exposed.
But the information I need is there—the final five names on Jace's list with their current locations and security details, Bryan's whereabouts and assignment status, and most importantly, clues about where he might have stored the recording he made of my assault, the only physical evidence that can prove what he did and connect him to everything else.
The clock on my computer screen reads four forty-five, and the shift change at the security checkpoints happens right at five. Which means fifteen minutes until guards rotate and protocols loosen slightly in the transition, creating a window where attention is divided and responses are slower.
My hands continue working through routine reports while my heart rate climbs and sweat begins to gather at my hairline despite the climate-controlled temperature. The phone I smuggled into the secure area this morning sits in my pocket, a violation of security protocols that would get me reprimanded under normal circumstances. But circumstances stopped being normal the moment I made a deal with a hitman in my bedroom, and worrying about minor infractions feels absurd given what I'm about to do.
Four fifty—my fingers save the current document and close the window, then navigate to a new screen that requires additional authentication. The login prompt appears and I type my credentials in, muscle memory from months of accessing these systems for legitimate purposes. The authentication processes and the screen shifts to show the main CRIP database interface.A lump starts to form in my throat as I stare at the letters on the screen that blur and straighten thanks to my rapid heart rate.
No one is around my desk now, and half the team has left for the day already. It's just me, two other analysts, and Mitchell here. But none of them can see my computer. I can do this. I suck in a deep breath to force the tension out of my chest.
Four fifty-five. Guards are moving toward their rotation points, conversations happening at checkpoint stations while people prepare to clock out and others prepare to take over. The transition creates exactly the distraction I need. The gap leaves security's attention divided and unfocused and I have to capitalize on it now, or I have to wait until tomorrow.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, entering search parameters that pull up personnel files for everyone who served under Captain Bryan at Fort Benning during the relevant timeframe. The list populates quickly—Hamilton, Brooks, Frank, Vaughn, Grayson. Five names, five locations, five current assignments scattered across military installations and civilian addresses from West Virginia to Indiana to North Carolina.
I pull the phone out of my pocket and turn it on, cursing the damn thing for being so slow to boot up. Then I open the camera app. Screenshots would be faster but leave digital trails. Besides, I'd have to open a browser and attach all these images to an email. This phone is the fastest way and I can take it with me wherever I go. So I snap a picture of every window on my screen while my other hand continues navigating through files and pulling up additional information.
My fingers navigate deeper into Bryan's file, looking for personal information that might indicate where he stores sensitive materials. Home address, vehicle registration, known associates—but there's nothing here and I can't keep wasting time. I'm down to the wire and I have to get out before I'm detected and locked down.
The camera clicks and captures the information, and my pulse is racing now because if I get caught with this—information on a potential major in the army, I'll be court martialed for sure. But something goes wrong. I'm deep into another search for the last two names when the monitor flickers. Then it goes completely black except for a large red box that appears in the center with text that makes my blood run cold.
SECURITY VIOLATION DETECTED
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS TO CLASSIFIED SYSTEMS
USER CREDENTIALS SUSPENDED
REMAIN AT YOUR WORKSTATION
My heart hammers against my ribs like an impact gun and I turn off the phone and slide it into my pocket. The laptop clicks shut and I stand calmly, like this is any other day and I'm leaving work like normal. I have less than a minute before security is alerted, so I move quickly, not making any eye contact. I can’t let anyone delay me and thankfully, no one even looks up from their computer as I pass.
I want to run down the long hallway and out the door, but I know that will only get me caught faster. I force myself to keep a steady pace and my chin held high. This is what my training is for. This is the sort of thing Bryan himself coached us to do in events like this where stakes are high and our bodies are fighting us.
Behind me, I hear voices rising in volume, confusion spreading as someone discovers the security alert on the system. Peopleare moving and shouting, and radio chatter is starting to crackle through the building.
The exit is fifty feet away. Then thirty. Then ten.
"Staff Sergeant Hart!" The voice comes from behind me, but it doesn't sound antagonistic, so I ignore it and keep moving.
I can't stop. Stopping means detention and interrogation and losing any chance of getting this information to Jace before they lock me up and throw away the key. My hand hits the door bar and pushes through into the exterior hallway, and then I'm moving faster, speed-walking toward the final checkpoint that leads to the parking lot as I glance over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure no one is chasing me.
