Shannon’s face crumpled. She blinked again. One tear slipped sideways into the bandage on her temple. Her hand moved excruciatingly slow:W-H-A-T H-A-P-P-E-N-E-D?
Dante shook his head. “Ford is going to find out.”
She carefully dragged out one final word:K-R-U
Her hand stopped.
But he understood. He covered her hand with his. “He’s not getting near you again.”
FORT NOVOSEL – SECURED HANGAR 2 – 1741 HOURS
Ford stood with arms crossed, watching two Bravo techs lay out the evidence under portable floodlights. Krueger sat in a locked room fifty feet away.
The frayed tail rotor cable chemically scored with an acidic agent not assigned to that bird’s maintenance. A recovered piece of shattered glass ampoule near the intake. Sabotage components bagged. One pair of gloves, stained.
Paulsen handed over the manifest. “Timing matches his hangar shift. Tools unaccounted for. The acid was signed out under a supervisor code that doesn’t exist.”
Ford nodded once.
“And the kicker?” Paulsen flipped open another folder. “This isn’t the first time Krueger’s name has shown up in sabotagetags. He was flagged two years ago in New Mexico. Buried under classified flight line logs.”
Ford’s mouth thinned. “Because of who his father is.”
Paulsen said nothing.
Ford snapped the file shut. “Get the lawyers ready and lock down internal comms. Chase doesn’t leak.”
CHASE SECURITY HQ DC – 1840 HOURS EST
The lights in the boardroom dimmed automatically with the setting sun. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls bled gold over the city skyline, but inside the room, no one looked up.
Ian Chase stood at the head of the long table, sleeves rolled, jaw tight. To his right sat Tate Webster, CEO of Chase DC, his voice low and deliberate as he reviewed the internal damage reports. He had once built intelligence infrastructure for JSOC. Now he helped run one of the most powerful private military networks in the country.
To Ian’s left, Zach Wentworth, head of the domestic law enforcement bureau and an attorney, scrolled slowly through a classified asset file on his secure tablet. His gray suit looked corporate, but nothing about his posture was. He was the hammer Chase used when soft gloves failed.
Across from him sat his wife, Saoirse Kennedy Wentworth, former US Attorney and legal counsel for Chase’s high-risk response team and the NY branch. Her heels were off, her briefing binder open and tabbed. She had memorized every flight log before they entered the room.
“Krueger’s father has arrived at Fort Novosel,” Saoirse reported. “He’s attempting to invoke private counsel on his son’s behalf. Threatening to escalate to DoD oversight.”
Ian looked at Zach. “Don’t let him.”
Zach nodded. “We’ll box him out. The boy’s not going anywhere.”
Tate folded his hands. “And Shannon?”
“In the ICU,” Ian said. “She is in and out of consciousness.”
Zach shut the tablet. “We fly down tonight. Take custody of Krueger. Interrogate on Chase ground. Your jet’s fueled?”
Ian nodded. “Wheels up in thirty.”
Saoirse slipped her heels back on and stood. “We’ll coordinate with Ford on the handoff. No leaks. No deals.”
Tate leaned forward. “You’re not going to like this, but Krueger’s sabotage has financial fingerprints. The acid he used—the badge override came from a requisitions queue ghost-managed by a shell company out of Nigeria. We’re still digging.” He took a breath. “Graycut Partners, LLC have a couple of their teams in the area.”
Ian’s jaw clenched. “Graycut.”
“They’re still trying to unseat our pentagon contract in Kenya,” Tate added.
