Chapter 2

The next morning during breakfast service, I asked Morrison who that woman was.

Morrison was the mess supervisor for logistics and had served at the base for twenty years. While spreading butter on toast, he said, "Elena Vasquez, an independent journalist. She contributes to Army Times and several civilian media outlets. She started investigating incidents along the border six months ago. Three months back, she was caught taking photos outside the base by military police on charges of leaking classified information."

He set down the butter knife. "For a military court to hear a leakage case, the Defense Investigative Service first needs to submit a preliminary report. Colonel Reeves, the security officer, has held onto the report and refused to hand it over, so the case has been left pending. Regulations state this status can last no more than ninety days, and she has already been detained for eighty-seven days."

"What did she write about?"

"Blackthorn Defense. She claims a private military company colludes with insiders here to falsify material losses and siphon off military funds. She even named Colonel Reeves directly." Morrison picked up the butter knife again and spread butter over another slice of bread. "No one dares to look into it. Blackthorn's contracts are signed directly by the Pentagon."

Blackthorn Defense. The moment Morrison spoke the name, the knuckles on my right hand tightened instinctively. I did not clench a fist; instead, my fingers spread open then slowly curled inward, as if gripping an invisible handle. I slipped my hand into the pocket of my apron to hide the reaction from Morrison.

At ten o'clock in the morning, I was working in the warehouse. The new administrator could not find the material codes for the logistics center and fumbled around on the computer for ages. I hauled sacks of flour onto a handcart, glanced at his screen, and my hand moved on its own to tap one line of text.

"This one."

"How did you know that?"

I pulled my hand back. I had no idea. My fingers knew the answer before I did.

As I left the warehouse, Colonel Reeves walked toward me down the corridor. He wore a crisp combat uniform with a red name tag. He nodded at me. "Cole, how's the knee holding up?" "Same as always." He smiled and continued on his way. His footsteps echoed evenly down the hallway, each step perfectly spaced. He turned into the administration building, and the spot where he had stood was directly in view of the warehouse surveillance camera.

Morrison once told me Colonel Reeves never sets foot in the logistics center personally.

I pushed the handcart back to the kitchen, two thoughts running through my mind. First, those two involuntary reactions today — pinpointing the material code and noticing Reeves' distinct gait — both happened after my encounter with Elena. Second, Hades' response to the word Ironwall. It was not the reaction of an ordinary military dog hearing an unfamiliar term, but that of a canine receiving a command it had waited for a long time.

At dinnertime, Elena appeared at the serving window once more. A faint red mark circled her left wrist, left by restraints. I handed her a bowl of soup, with a narrow folded napkin tucked beneath it, marked with a single horizontal line.

She took the bowl and pressed her thumb lightly against the rim.

When I went to collect the trays later, hers sat at the far left of the return counter. On the napkin, a new indentation pressed by her nail ran parallel to my line. Two parallel lines meant she declined a meeting. If she understood this coded signal, she was familiar with this set of secret symbols. If that was true, I had to find out where she had learned them.

I crumpled the napkin in my palm and headed back to the kitchen.

I arrived at the kennel half an hour later than usual that night. Hades scraped the ground three times again the second he saw me. This time I did not crouch down. Standing at the gate of the kennel, I slid my hand through the gaps in the fence. My fingers bent slightly, knuckles pointing downward — I did not recognize the gesture, yet my hand formed it naturally. Hades froze for a split second, then slowly pressed his nose against my knuckles.

It was another standard K-9 unit confirmation signal. This gesture meant: I verify your identity.

I leaned back against the barbed wire fence surrounding the kennel and sat down. In the distance, toward the east-wing detention cell, a black SUV sat with its headlights on and engine running. Hades pricked up his ears and let out a low growl. His tail went rigid, and his whole body tensed like a fully drawn bow.

This dog knew that vehicle. Just as my body knew that word. We were both searching for the same truth.

The time had come. I had to get to the bottom of everything.