Chapter 6 - BUILDING TWELVE
Wade folded the detention order once.
Then again.
His movements were precise.
Too precise.
“Sergeant,” he said to the military policeman, “when did you receive this?”
“Two minutes ago, sir.”
“Did you verify the authentication?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With whom?”
The officer glanced at the second guard.
“The command duty officer.”
“Name.”
“Major Collins.”
Wade looked at Torres.
Major Collins had left the base three hours earlier for a medical emergency.
Torres understood immediately.
Mike saw the recognition pass between them.
Wade handed the order back.
“You will return to the security station and confirm Major Collins’s physical location before acting.”
The officer hesitated.
“Sir, the instruction says immediate detention.”
“I am the officer whose authorization appears on that document. I am telling you it is fraudulent.”
The younger guard shifted his grip on the rifle.
Mike watched his hands.
Nervous.
Not hostile.
The senior officer touched his radio.
Static answered.
No command channel.
No dispatch.
No background chatter.
The base communications network had gone silent.
Torres stepped into the corridor.
“Your radios are dead because the internal relay has been isolated. Whoever sent that order knew you couldn’t verify it.”
The officer looked at the blank radio display.
His confidence faltered.
Wade lowered his voice.
“Take your partner. Secure the main armory entrance. Accept no electronic orders without face-to-face confirmation.”
“Sir—”
“That is a lawful command.”
The officer nodded.
Both guards moved away.
Mike waited until they turned the corner.
“Building Twelve.”
They avoided the main elevator and descended the concrete emergency stairwell.
The base felt wrong.
Lights remained on. Ventilation systems ran. Rain whispered against narrow windows.
But no announcements sounded.
No vehicles crossed the courtyard.
No radios crackled.
The installation had not lost power.
It had lost its voice.
At the ground floor, Torres stopped beside a security panel.
“The western sector cameras are looping.”
“How can you tell?” Mike asked.
“The same rain pattern repeats every eleven seconds.”
Wade looked toward the dark hallway.
“Someone prepared this.”
Mike’s expression hardened.
“Someone prepared my sister’s murder.”
Nobody answered.
They crossed an enclosed walkway toward the logistics district. Building Twelve stood beyond the motor pool, a low concrete structure with faded numbers above its bay doors.
One exterior light flickered.
The western perimeter fence ran behind it.
Beyond that lay scrubland and a county highway.
Torres checked the tablet.
“No heat signatures inside.”
“Is that reliable?” Wade asked.
“No.”
Mike tried the personnel door.
Unlocked.
He looked at Wade.
“Decommissioned buildings don’t stay unlocked.”
They entered.
The smell of dust and old wiring filled the air.
Their boots echoed across the concrete floor.
Mike’s hand remained near his radio, though the device was useless.
No one reached for a weapon.
The warehouse was empty except for metal shelving, cable reels, and a row of obsolete communications cabinets.
Torres found the structural markings on a support column.
GRID 6.
They followed it to Section 8, Bay 4.
A steel door marked Room 3 stood behind a movable shelving unit.
The shelf had fresh wheel marks beneath it.
Mike pushed it aside.
Wade stared at the hidden door.
“I signed the decommissioning inspection for this building.”
“When?” Torres asked.
“Four years ago.”
“Did you inspect this room?”
“It wasn’t on the plans.”
Mike inserted the edge of the old evidence drive into the lock seam, not to open it but to test the magnetic strip.
A green light appeared.
The door unlocked.
Torres looked at the drive.
“The purge didn’t destroy everything.”
“It preserved the credential,” Mike said.
He pulled the door open.
Cold air flowed over them.
Inside, modern servers blinked in perfect rows.
A secure communications array filled the room.
Nothing had been decommissioned.
Wade stepped inside.
“This equipment is current.”
Torres examined the nearest rack.
“Not just current. Classified.”
Mike moved deeper into the room.
On a central table sat Mark’s laptop.
Beside it lay Sarah’s home-security recorder.
The two items the fake investigators had removed from the murder scene.
Mike touched neither.
A monitor activated by itself.
A live camera feed appeared.
Sheriff Bill Kane sat tied to a chair in his county office.
His face was bruised.
A figure stood behind him, hidden by darkness.
May you like
Bill lifted his head toward the camera.
“Mike,” he said, “they made me send you here.”
