Chapter 2 - THE SECRETS IN THE BASEMENT"Clear the stage!"
The order came not from Vance, but from a booming voice echoing across the PA system as a second convoy of blacked-out Chevy Suburbans tore through the security gates, bypassing all protocol. They didn't stop at the perimeter; they drove right onto the concrete apron of the parade ground, tires hissing against the hot pavement.
Blackwood clutched at his belt like a drowning man grasping a straw. "You can't do this! I have twenty-six years of unblemished service! I have a commendation from the Secretary of the Navy!"
"You had one," Vance corrected coldly, motioning to the JSOC operators. Two of them stepped forward, their heavy combat boots heavy on the wood. In a matter of seconds, Blackwood’s ceremonial sidearm was unbuckled from his waist, his shoulder boards—the gleaming silver stars of a Rear Admiral—were violently ripped from his epaulets by an unyielding operator, and he was shoved hard against the side of the lectern.
"This is an outrage!" Blackwood shrieked, spattering spit as his face pressed against the varnished oak. "I want legal counsel! I want a court-martial hearing! You can't just—"
"Quiet," I said, stepping up to him. I wiped a smudge of dust off my cheek with the back of my hand. "If you talk anymore, Admiral, I’ll let my brother show these Marines the satellite intercept logs from your private offshore accounts in the Caymans. The ones funded by missing logistics contracts from your last three deployments."
The color completely vanished from Blackwood’s face. He snapped his mouth shut so fast his teeth clicked. He knew. God help him, he knew we knew everything.
"Get him out of my sight," Vance ordered.
The JSOC team hauled Blackwood away, his boots dragging uselessly across the concrete as they shoved him into the back of the second Suburban. The doors slammed shut with a heavy, final thud.
The parade ground was dead silent. Two thousand Marines stood frozen, realizing they had just watched a high-ranking flag officer dismantled in less than ten minutes by a woman in a dusty shirt and a man who looked like he could authorize a tactical airstrike with a flick of his wrist.
The commanding officer of Camp Pendleton, a grizzled Major General named Thomas Briggs, finally hurried up the ramp, looking like he was about to suffer a massive coronary.
"Director Vance," Briggs panted, snapping a rigid salute. "I... I wasn't briefed on this operation. The gate logs said—"
"The gate logs were classified at Eyes-Only Level 9, General," Vance cut him off, his voice dripping with ice. "Which means your base security was supposed to wave my sister through without a second glance. Instead, one of your pampered admirals decided to use her face for target practice."
Briggs swallowed hard, his eyes flicking nervously toward me. "Commander Vance... my apologies. I had no idea—"
"Save it, General," I said, turning away from them and walking toward the open door of the VH-60N. "I didn't come here to ruin a retirement ceremony. I came here because the data drive in my pocket contains proof that a third of the logistics network running through this base has been compromised by a Chinese military intelligence cell operating out of San Diego."
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Briggs froze, his mouth half-open. "Compromised?"
"Not just compromised," I said, stepping up into the helicopter cabin and tossing my duffel bag onto the bench seat. "Active. And Blackwood wasn't just a rude jerk—he was their primary point of contact inside the naval command structure."
