“We don’t know for sure,” Bran said. “But it’s a distinct possibility.”
“We need to know how many weapons were stolen,” Jessie said.
Frazier ran a trembling hand over his carrot-red hair. One glance at the implacable look on Bran’s face and he started talking. “A truckload. That’s three pallets. Each pallet holds five thousand pounds. Fifteen thousand pounds of munitions of various shapes and sizes.”
Bran clenched his jaw. “Far more than enough for a terror attack.”
“Or to cause a small war,” Jessie added.
Frazier’s gaze turned beseeching. “Please...I’m begging you. If you tell the army what really happened, those men will kill my family.”
“We aren’t ready to tell anyone anything yet,” Bran said.
“And it wouldn’t matter if we did,” Jessie added. “The money in the offshore account still makes my father look guilty. Until we can find out who put it there and prove it was done to frame him, nothing will change.”
“What about the missing weapons?” Frazier asked. “Someone’s got to find them.”
“The army is searching,” Bran said.
“And so are we,” Jessie added. “It’s what my father would have done.”
Bran didn’t correct her, though they were hardly in a position to track down a truckload of stolen chemical weapons—especially since they had no idea who was involved or who they could trust.
But Bran was pretty sure that wouldn’t stop Jessie from trying. And since he had vowed to help her, he was in it till they found a way to make it end.
