Chapter 8 - The Man Beside MeI did not confront Grant on the boat.
That decision probably saved my life.
He stood three feet away while I studied the terminal trace displaying his credentials.
Captain Elias Grant.
Authenticated access.
Eleven communications with Voss-controlled servers.
Recent connection: twenty-two minutes earlier.
I turned off the screen.
“You find anything?” he asked.
“Dead relay.”
His eyes stayed on mine slightly too long.
“Unfortunate.”
“Yeah.”
We returned to shore.
I immediately requested private access to Admiral Brooks.
No Grant.
No aides.
Brooks met me in a secure office at 3:10 a.m.
I showed him the evidence.
He read it twice.
Then sat back.
“Elias.”
“You trusted him.”
“For sixteen years.”
“So did I.”
Brooks ordered Grant’s access frozen silently.
But Grant moved first.
By 3:22, he disappeared from the facility.
His badge remained at his desk.
His personal vehicle remained in the garage.
Security footage showed nothing.
He knew the surveillance architecture.
Of course he did.
“He’s been inside the investigation from the beginning,” I said.
Brooks looked devastated.
“Possibly.”
“Your stolen command token.”
Brooks nodded slowly.
“Grant had access to my office five years ago.”
Everything aligned.
Voss had money.
Vanessa had information.
But Grant had military authority.
Together they created Glass Harbor.
“Why?”
Financial investigators found the answer before sunrise.
Grant’s ex-wife owned a trust in the Cayman Islands worth $11.4 million.
Deposits began six years earlier.
One year before my mission.
He had been bought.
Then something unexpected appeared.
Grant stopped accepting payments after Glass Harbor.
Instead, he began secretly collecting evidence against Voss.
“He turned,” Brooks said.
“After four people died.”
“Maybe that changed him.”
“It didn’t bring them back.”
At 7:40 a.m., Grant called me.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Claire.”
“Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You betrayed us.”
“Yes.”
The simplicity stunned me.
“You canceled extraction.”
“Yes.”
My knees weakened.
“Why?”
“Because I was a coward.”
I said nothing.
Grant continued.
“Voss told me the platform would be empty. Your team would arrive, find nothing, leave. He wanted the mission discredited.”
“He lied.”
“Yes.”
“And when we requested extraction?”
“He threatened my family.”
“So you canceled it.”
“I used Brooks’s token.”
I closed my eyes.
Carter.
Wolfe.
Reyes.
Pike.
“What do you want?”
“To finish this.”
“You had five years.”
“So did Brooks.”
“Where are you?”
“Claire, Voss wasn’t the top.”
I opened my eyes.
“What?”
“He answers to someone else.”
“Who?”
“I never knew until tonight.”
A sound came through the phone.
Wind.
Traffic.
Then Grant spoke.
“Remember the person who ordered the Lighthouse program restricted after your mission?”
I remembered.
Deputy Secretary of Defense Malcolm Creed.
A politically connected procurement official.
Later appointed to oversee defense modernization.
“He’s the one?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Proof?”
“I have it.”
“Then turn yourself in.”
“I will.”
“Where?”
“Fort Rosecrans cemetery. Carter’s grave. One hour.”
He ended the call.
Brooks insisted on security.
I refused visible personnel.
Grant knew surveillance.
If he sensed a trap, he might disappear permanently.
At the cemetery, morning fog rolled between white headstones.
I walked toward Lieutenant Sam Carter’s grave.
Grant stood beside it.
Unarmed.
At least visibly.
“You came,” he said.
“You murdered him.”
His face tightened.
“I know.”
“You don’t get forgiveness because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not asking.”
He handed me a flash drive.
“Everything is there.”
“Creed?”
“Payments. Messages. Operational orders.”
“Why now?”
“Because Voss will talk.”
“You think Creed will kill him.”
“He’ll kill everyone connected.”
A gunshot cracked.
Grant jerked.
Blood appeared on his chest.
I dropped behind a headstone.
“SNIPER!”
Grant fell.
Security teams hidden nearby responded.
A second shot struck stone inches from my head.
I crawled toward Grant.
His breathing was wet.
“Stay with me.”
He grabbed my jacket.
“Drive.”
“What?”
“The drive.”
“I have it.”
“No. Wrong one.”
His fingers trembled toward Sam Carter’s grave.
“Under... marker.”
Then his hand fell.
“Grant!”
He died looking at the grave of the man his cowardice had helped kill.
The sniper escaped.
But Grant’s final clue remained.
Under a loose memorial marker behind Carter’s headstone, investigators found a sealed waterproof package.
Inside was the real evidence.
Malcolm Creed had financed Voss.
Approved the technology sales.
Ordered Glass Harbor compromised.
And five years later, he was now one of the most influential national-security advisors in Washington.
Brooks stared at the documents.
“We can arrest him.”
I looked at the list of people Creed had paid.
Judges.
Contractors.
Officers.
Politicians.
“No.”
Brooks frowned.
“No?”
“If we move before we know how deep this goes, evidence disappears.”
“What do you suggest?”
I looked at Grant’s last file.
One event appeared repeatedly in Creed’s schedule.
Three days away.
The National Maritime Security Summit.
Hundreds of defense executives.
Military leaders.
Members of Congress.
And Malcolm Creed giving the keynote address.
I closed the folder.
“He likes powerful audiences.”
Brooks understood.
May you like
“So?”
“So we give him one.”
