Chapter 8: The Locked Room
“Lock down secure quarters.””
Price shouted the order before I finished speaking.
We ran.
Two vehicles carried us across base.
My mother had been inside that building less than forty minutes.
Now someone there was accessing my medical records.
The thought made my skin crawl.
When we arrived, military police had sealed every exit.
“No one leaves,” Price ordered.
An officer approached.
“We have seventeen people inside.””
“General Mercer?””
“Room 204.””
“Has she left?””
“No, sir.””
I pushed past them.
Price caught my shoulder.
“Audrey.””
“My mother is in there.””
“And possibly the person threatening your unborn child.””
“Exactly.””
He stared at me.
Then handed me a protective vest.
“Wear this.””
I looked at my belly.
The vest barely fit.
“This is ridiculous.””
“Humor me.””
We entered.
The hallway was silent.
Room 204 stood at the far end.
Two MPs guarded the door.
“Has anyone entered?”” Price asked.
“No.””
“Anyone left?””
“No.””
Price knocked.
“General Mercer?””
My mother answered.
“Come in.””
She was sitting at a small table reading a paperback.
She looked at my vest.
“What happened?””
“Someone accessed Audrey’s prenatal records from this building.””
Her book closed.
“When?””
“Minutes ago.””
She stood.
“Find them.””
Price studied the room.
No computer.
No tablet.
Only my mother’s surrendered personal phone sealed in an evidence pouch.
“What network devices are in here?”” he asked.
“None.””
Price checked anyway.
Nothing.
Then his radio crackled.
“Agent Price, we traced the terminal.””
“Location?””
“Third floor. Administrative office.””
We ran upstairs.
The office door was locked.
An MP opened it.
Inside, a computer glowed in the darkness.
No one was there.
Price touched the keyboard.
“Recent access?””
A technician checked.
“Captain Lane’s medical records. Downloaded.””
“Where did the file go?””
“External device.””
“Camera footage?””
The security officer pulled up the hallway feed.
We watched.
At 12:34 a.m., a person wearing maintenance coveralls entered.
Cap low.
Face partially hidden.
They unlocked the office.
Three minutes later, they walked out.
“Zoom in,” I said.
The image enlarged.
The person carried a tool bag.
Price paused the footage.
“Badge.””
A security badge hung from the person’s belt.
The technician sharpened the frame.
A name appeared.
*HARRIS, L. COL.*
My stomach dropped.
Lieutenant Colonel Harris.
The officer who had confirmed Grant attacked me at the banquet.
“He was there,” I whispered.
Price looked at me.
“At the ballroom?””
“He witnessed everything.””
My mother entered behind us.
“Harris also served under William Lane.””
Price turned.
“When?””
“About fifteen years ago.””
I remembered Harris’s face when Mom asked what he had seen.
The hesitation.
I had thought he was afraid of Grant.
Maybe he had been calculating what to say.
“Find him,” Price ordered.
An officer checked the personnel system.
“He signed out forty minutes ago.””
“Vehicle?””
“Government sedan.””
“Destination?””
“Base hospital.””
Grant.
I was already moving.
The hospital was six minutes away.
We made it in four.
Price called ahead.
No Harris had officially entered.
That meant nothing.
We rushed toward Grant’s floor.
Two guards stood outside his room.
Price flashed his badge.
“Anyone enter?””
“Medical staff only.””
“Names.””
The guard checked the log.
Doctor Reynolds.
Nurse Chen.
Respiratory technician Mark Doyle.
I looked through the window.
Grant lay unconscious beneath white sheets.
A breathing tube ran beneath his nose.
His face was bruised.
One eye swollen shut.
For the first time since the banquet, he looked powerless.
Price checked the medical log.
“Where’s Doyle?””
The nurse frowned.
“He left five minutes ago.””
“Description?””
“Tall. White male. Mask.””
“Harris is tall,” I said.
Price looked at the IV line.
“Get a doctor.””
The nurse rushed inside.
Seconds later, alarms sounded.
Grant’s heart rate plunged.
“Code!””
Doctors flooded the room.
I stood behind the glass while they worked.
My hand pressed against my mouth.
I remembered our wedding.
Grant crying when I walked down the aisle.
Grant painting the nursery.
Grant pressing his ear against my stomach the first time our daughter kicked.
Then I remembered the ballroom floor.
His hands on my uniform.
His voice telling me to obey.
Both versions of him existed.
That was the hardest part.
“Come on,” I whispered.
Doctors injected something.
The monitor stabilized.
A physician emerged.
“Someone added a sedative to his IV.””
Price’s expression darkened.
“Enough to kill him?””
“Combined with his injuries? Potentially.””
Grant had not escaped.
Someone had taken him.
And now someone had tried to silence him.
Price’s phone rang.
The search team had found Harris’s government sedan.
Abandoned.
Inside was the maintenance uniform.
No Harris.
But there was a phone.
One outgoing message had been recovered.
Sent twenty minutes earlier.
*LANE STILL ALIVE. SECOND ATTEMPT FAILED.*
The recipient was saved under one letter.
*G.*
Price showed us.
My mother’s face changed.
“What?””
She stared at the screen.
“Harris used that same designation fifteen years ago.””
“For whom?””
She looked at me.
“His commanding general.””
“William?””
“No.””
My mother shook her head.
“General Thomas Keane.””
I remembered the list.
Keane.
Four-star.
May you like
Still active.
And scheduled to chair the ceremony formally confirming my new command at eight that morning.
