Chapter 8 - Uncle TomThomas Mercer had been in family photographs before I could walk.
Colonel Voss was supposed to be dead.
I had read the report.
General Hale had confirmed it.
There had been photographs from the crash.
Dental identification.
A death notification.
Yet Nathaniel Voss was being carried from an abandoned research facility less than six miles from where I stood.
Alive.
Barely.
But alive.
Medics rushed him into an ambulance.
I followed until one blocked me.
“Captain, give us room.”
Voss opened his eyes.
“Evelyn.”
I leaned closer.
“I’m here.”
His lips barely moved.
“Not Hale.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Don’t…”
His eyes rolled back.
The medic pushed me away.
I turned.
General Hale stood twenty feet behind me.
Watching.
The words repeated in my head.
Not Hale.
Do not trust Hale?
Do not blame Hale?
Do not tell Hale?
That was the problem with dying men and incomplete sentences.
People built whatever truth they feared most.
Hale approached.
“What did he say?”
I hesitated.
Then lied.
“Nothing coherent.”
The general studied me.
I had worked around interrogators for most of my adult life.
I knew when somebody recognized deception.
He recognized it.
But he let it go.
For the moment.
Inside the Northland building, investigators found restraints, medical supplies, surveillance equipment, and a workstation configured to mimic government authentication systems.
The crash victim identified as Voss had not been Voss.
Someone had substituted another body.
That required planning.
Access.
Influence.
Harrier.
The unidentified senior source.
Price found a second room beneath the main floor.
Its walls were covered with photographs.
Mine.
Dozens.
Years of my life.
My parents shopping.
Tiffany leaving work.
My father at a cardiology appointment.
Me entering military facilities.
A timeline ran across one wall.
At nineteen: scholarship.
At twenty-two: commissioning.
At twenty-four: first clearance.
At twenty-seven: Kandahar.
At twenty-nine: recruitment into special threat analysis.
At thirty-three: Nightglass.
Someone had watched me become exactly the person they expected me to become.
At the end of the timeline, beneath that evening’s date, one sentence had been printed.
SUBJECT ECHO RETURNS TO ORIGIN.
I stared at it.
Price stood beside me.
“This wasn’t put up for operational planning.”
“No.”
“It was put up for you.”
“Yes.”
A psychological message.
You were never free.
You were always observed.
It almost worked.
Then Tiffany entered behind us.
She had refused to remain in the vehicle.
Her face changed when she saw the photographs.
“Oh my God.”
I turned.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should any of this.”
She walked toward a picture of herself at twenty-one.
College graduation.
Greg was not in her life then.
Or so she had believed.
She touched the edge of the photograph without contacting it.
“He knew me before I knew him.”
“Yes.”
“Did he choose me because of you?”
I did not answer.
She already knew.
Her voice cracked.
“I thought he fell in love with me.”
“He may have.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s worse.”
She looked at me, tears rising.
“If all of it was fake, I can hate him. But if some of it was real…”
She could not finish.
I understood.
Real affection does not erase betrayal.
Sometimes it makes betrayal unbearable.
Price called from the workstation.
“Captain.”
A file had been left open.
Video.
He played it.
Greg appeared on screen.
Clean-shaven.
Dark suit.
The same charming face I had seen across Thanksgiving tables.
“Evelyn,” he said.
“If you’re watching this, then you found Voss.”
Tiffany stepped closer.
Greg continued.
“I know what you think I am.”
He almost smiled.
“You’re partly right.”
“I was assigned to observe your family fifteen years ago.”
Tiffany covered her mouth.
“My job was to understand how close you were to them. What influenced you. What frightened you. Who you trusted.”
He paused.
“I was not supposed to fall in love with Tiffany.”
My sister turned away.
Greg’s eyes seemed to follow her through the recording.
“I know that sentence will sound like manipulation. Maybe it is. I stopped knowing where the assignment ended years ago.”
He looked directly into the camera.
“But I am not Harrier.”
General Hale entered the room behind us.
Greg continued.
“And neither is General Hale.”
I glanced at him.
Hale’s expression remained unreadable.
“Harrier is somebody you have known nearly your entire life. Somebody who helped shape your career. Somebody who made sure Kandahar happened because failure made you useful.”
My chest tightened.
Failure made you useful.
It was sick.
It was also plausible.
After Kandahar, I became obsessive about anomalous data.
That obsession made me valuable to Nightglass.
Had someone engineered my greatest professional trauma to create the investigator they later needed?
Greg leaned closer to the camera.
“Voss discovered the truth. That’s why they took him.”
“Harrier has access to military personnel records, contractor systems, law enforcement authentication, and family data.”
The screen flickered.
Then Greg said:
“Evelyn, ask yourself one question.”
“Who knew you were coming home before your family did?”
The recording ended.
I slowly turned toward Hale.
He looked exhausted.
“I knew.”
“So did Voss.”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
Hale hesitated.
“One person.”
“Who?”
“The officer who authorized your original recruitment into special access work.”
I felt a strange pressure in my chest.
I knew that officer.
Everyone in my early career did.
He had visited me in the hospital after Kandahar.
Written a recommendation that saved my career.
Called my father once and told him I had a future.
Retired four years ago with honors.
Lieutenant General Thomas Mercer.
My father’s oldest friend.
The man I had called Uncle Tom since childhood.
Tiffany whispered, “No.”
General Hale looked at me.
“Mercer knew before anyone else.”
Then my phone rang.
Private number.
I answered.
A familiar voice said warmly,
“Evie.”
I closed my eyes.
“Uncle Tom.”
May you like
He sighed.
“I think it’s time we finally talked.”
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