“Let’s see how tough you really are,” the sergeant sneered as the clippers cut through my hair—but the moment Captain Hale discovered a metal tag linked to a dead soldier’s belongings, someone sent me a photograph that revealed a terrifying secret: Emma Castillo’s death was only the beginning.

The service tunnels beneath Fort Baxter connected every major logistics hub on the north end of the base, originally designed to move heavy munitions between bunkers without exposure to satellite surveillance.

Riley led the group, Mercer shuffling between her and Hale, while Sofia carried the server drawer, her fingers gripped tightly around the steel handle.

As they reached the junction box leading up to Hangar 9, Mercer stopped, his hand bracing against the damp brick wall.

“Wait,” Mercer muttered. “Listen.”

Above them, through the heavy corrugated steel ceiling, the rumble of heavy diesel engines vibrated through the foundation. Two large semi-trucks were idling on the tarmac, their air brakes releasing with sharp, rhythmic hisses.

“They’re running the pre-trip inspections,” Sofia said, her mechanical knowledge kicking in instantly. “They’ll be rolling in less than ten minutes.”

“Lawson won't be in the trucks,” Riley analyzed, her criminal psychology background working through the commander’s behavioral pattern. “Men like Lawson don't ride in the getaway vehicle. He’ll be in the flight control office overlooking the hangar floor, coordinating the gate clearance and watching the cameras. Once those trucks clear the gate, he’ll initiate a simulated fire drill in this depot to destroy whatever evidence the thermite didn't finish.”

“Then we don't hit the trucks,” Hale said grimly. “We hit the control office. We cut the snake’s head off.”

“You won't get close,” Mercer said, shaking his head. “Lawson has six Vanguard security contractors with him. These aren't supply clerks, Captain. They’re former Tier-One operators working on corporate payrolls. They carry suppressed HK416s, body armor, and thermobaric flashbangs. You walk through that stairwell, they’ll cut you to pieces before you clear the door.”

Riley looked at Mercer. She studied the tension in his jaw, the sweat glistening on his temples, the posture of a man who realized his entire worldview had been an illusion manufactured by a superior officer who considered him garbage.

“Cole,” Riley said, stepping directly into his personal space.

He flinched slightly, expecting a blow.

“You spent the last three years believing you were tough because you pushed around frightened nineteen-year-old recruits in Barracks C,” Riley said, her voice cutting through the damp darkness of the tunnel with surgical cruelty. “You held clippers to girls’ heads. You laughed while boys cried in locker bays. You thought that made you a soldier.”

Mercer lowered his eyes, his chest hitching.

“Look at me,” Riley commanded.

He looked up.

“Right now, you have one chance to prove you aren't completely worthless,” Riley said. “Emma Castillo was twenty-two years old. She had more courage in her little finger than you’ve had in your entire miserable life. If you want to walk out of this alive—if you want to stand in a courtroom instead of a morgue drawer—you are going to open that door for us.”

Mercer swallowed hard. “How?”

“Lawson doesn't know you failed yet,” Riley said. “He knows the thermite ignited. He knows the alarm went off. But he doesn't know we have the drives, and he doesn't know you’re with us. You go up those stairs first. You tell Lawson the fire caught, but Captain Hale was chasing you toward the perimeter gate. You pull those six contractors out of that control office to intercept a ghost.”

Hale looked at Riley, his eyebrows drawn tight. “Quinn, that’s an extreme risk. If he flips on us the second he enters that room—”

“He won't,” Riley said without looking away from Mercer. “Because Cole Mercer is a coward who wants to live. And he knows if Lawson wins tonight, Cole Mercer dies of a mysterious cardiac arrest inside a holding cell before sunrise.”

Mercer stared at Riley Quinn. A shudder ran through his massive frame. For the first time since she had arrived at Fort Baxter, he stood straight, not with the swagger of a barracks tyrant, but with the grim resignation of a man walking toward his own execution.