Chapter 10 - The Real AttackBy 3:40 in the morning, the entire investigation changed direction.
Every unresolved question told me the opposite.
Greg Palmer stood on the other side of a reinforced security door during an active breach alarm.
That fact alone should have ended the discussion.
Tiffany looked at me.
“Please.”
I shook my head.
“Back away.”
Greg spoke through the door.
“I’m unarmed.”
“Then lie down in the hallway.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because Sloan’s people are inside the building.”
That changed the equation.
I keyed the wall intercom.
“How did you get in?”
“Service corridor.”
“How?”
“I helped design the security architecture.”
Of course he had.
Hale had temporarily relocated us to a government facility that had been renovated two years earlier.
Likely by contractors.
Possibly Northland.
Nothing felt secure anymore.
“Where’s the ledger?” I asked.
“With me.”
Tiffany’s breath caught.
“Show me.”
A folded paper slid beneath the small gap under the door.
Not a ledger.
A handwritten authentication phrase.
I knew it.
Only Voss, Hale, and I should have known it.
Greg had spoken to Voss.
Recently.
I keyed the door controls.
Tiffany grabbed my arm.
“You’re opening it?”
“Stay behind me.”
The lock released.
Greg lay face down on the floor, hands visible.
Blood covered one sleeve.
I pulled him inside while Tiffany slammed the door.
She stared at him.
He looked at her.
For a second, the entire world disappeared from their faces.
There was love there.
That was obvious.
So was devastation.
“Tiff.”
She slapped him.
Hard.
He accepted it.
Then she slapped him again.
“You used me.”
“Yes.”
Her face broke.
“You lied every day.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever love me?”
Greg looked at her.
“Yes.”
She hit him a third time.
Then collapsed against the wall crying.
He did not approach her.
Good.
At least he understood that much.
I searched him.
No weapon.
One encrypted drive.
Two access cards.
A small notebook.
“Ledger?”
“The drive.”
“Password?”
“Biometric plus phrase.”
“Whose biometric?”
“Yours.”
I stared at him.
“Why mine?”
“Because Voss made the copy.”
“Then how did you get it?”
“He gave it to me before Mercer’s people took him.”
“Mercer said you stole it.”
“Mercer lies.”
“So do you.”
“Yes.”
The honesty was almost insulting.
Gunfire sounded faintly elsewhere in the facility.
Greg looked toward the ceiling.
“We need to move.”
“No.”
“Evelyn—”
“We’re secure here.”
“No room built by Northland is secure.”
He moved toward a ventilation panel.
I blocked him.
“Explain Kandahar.”
He closed his eyes.
“Now?”
“You used it to bring me here. So yes. Now.”
Greg looked at Tiffany, then Mom.
“This will hurt.”
“Try me.”
He sat against the wall, one hand pressed to his bleeding arm.
“Nightglass began as a behavioral access program. Identify people likely to hold sensitive positions in the future. Study them. Shape circumstances around them when useful.”
“Mercer’s program.”
“Yes.”
“Who altered Kandahar?”
“Sloan.”
I froze.
“Why?”
“To discredit a competing intelligence architecture and force adoption of a private analytics platform.”
My stomach turned.
“Six men died to sell software?”
“No.”
“What?”
“Six men died because Sloan expected the patrol route to change after the intelligence package failed validation.”
“But it didn’t.”
“You approved it.”
The old guilt surged.
Greg saw my face.
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“Don’t.”
“I mean it.”
“Don’t say that to me.”
He nodded.
“The altered package was designed to trigger internal review. You were expected to reject it.”
“I didn’t.”
“No.”
“So I failed.”
“No. The manipulation was built around your known decision patterns. They predicted you.”
That was somehow worse.
Human beings reduced to probabilities.
Greg continued.
“After the deaths, Mercer wanted Sloan prosecuted. Sloan threatened to expose the entire program. Mercer buried it instead.”
Mom whispered, “Coward.”
Greg nodded.
“Yes.”
“What was your role?”
“I monitored Evelyn’s family and professional development.”
Tiffany made a disgusted sound.
Greg flinched.
I asked, “And when did you meet Tiffany?”
“Three years ago.”
“You arranged it.”
“Yes.”
Tiffany closed her eyes.
“Why?”
“Mercer wanted closer access after Evelyn joined Voss’s group.”
“You dated me for my sister.”
“At first.”
Tiffany stood and walked away.
Greg’s eyes followed her.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“Then what changed?”
“I did.”
“Convenient.”
“I know.”
The facility lights flickered.
Greg stood.
“We have maybe two minutes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because if Sloan is using the Northland maintenance architecture, the next step is environmental control.”
The air-conditioning shut off.
Then a warning appeared on the wall panel.
FIRE SUPPRESSION SYSTEM ACTIVATED.
Greg swore.
“What?”
“This room seals during suppression.”
“So?”
“The system uses inert gas.”
Mom stood.
“What does that mean?”
Greg answered.
“It means we’re about to lose breathable oxygen.”
I checked the door.
Locked.
Override denied.
Greg ripped open the ventilation panel.
“Help me.”
We pulled the grille free.
Too small for adults.
Large enough to access wiring.
He reached inside.
A gunshot hit the outer door.
Tiffany screamed.
Sloan’s people had reached us.
I checked the secure cabinet.
No weapons.
Of course.
We had been placed in family protection quarters, not an armory.
Another shot struck the lock.
Greg worked faster.
“Thirty seconds.”
“To what?”
“Either I override the suppression or we all pass out.”
A hiss began above us.
Mom started coughing.
I moved Tiffany and Mom lower.
Greg stripped two wires.
Sparks.
Nothing.
“Greg.”
“I know.”
Another spark.
The door lock flashed red.
Then green.
At the same instant, the suppression hiss stopped.
The door began opening.
I grabbed a metal chair.
The first attacker entered with a weapon raised.
I swung the chair into his arms.
Greg tackled him.
The gun skidded across the floor.
I reached it first.
The second attacker appeared.
“Drop it!”
He hesitated.
Bad decision.
Hale and Price came around the corner behind him.
“Federal security! Down!”
The man surrendered.
For the next ten minutes, the facility shook with controlled chaos.
Then silence.
Sloan had escaped.
Again.
But the breach was contained.
Greg sat handcuffed in a medical room while his wound was treated.
Tiffany refused to see him.
I plugged Voss’s encrypted drive into an isolated terminal.
Fingerprint.
Passphrase.
Unlocked.
The Nightglass ledger contained hundreds of transactions.
Contractors.
Consultants.
Foreign intermediaries.
Lobbyists.
Retired officials.
But one line mattered more than the rest.
A payment made two weeks before Kandahar.
Recipient identifier:
HARRIER-S.
I stared.
“S?”
Hale leaned closer.
Price ran the financial key.
The result appeared.
Harrier had not been Mercer.
Mercer was listed separately.
Harrier-S resolved to:
ERIC SLOAN.
I looked at Greg.
“You said Mercer ran the program.”
“He did.”
“But Sloan was Harrier.”
“Yes.”
“Then why did Voss tell us Palmer was the bridge?”
“Because I connected Mercer’s old network to Sloan’s criminal one.”
Hale asked, “Where is Sloan going?”
Greg looked at the ledger.
Then at me.
“To finish what Kandahar started.”
“What does that mean?”
“He doesn’t want money anymore.”
“Then what?”
“He wants proof that the American command system can be manipulated into attacking itself.”
My blood went cold.
“Where?”
Greg swallowed.
“Cheyenne Mountain.”
And suddenly the false arrest, the attacks, Voss, my family, all of it looked different.
May you like
We had not been the target.
We had been the distraction.
