The air here was warm and smelled of disinfectant and floor wax.

Two armed military police officers stood guard at the entrance of the secure ward.

“Secure room four,” Reyes told them, showing his federal credentials.

The guards stepped aside, their faces grim and unreadable.

Jake locked the heavy door of room four behind us.

The room was small, containing a stainless-steel table, two vinyl chairs, and a gurney.

I sat on the edge of the gurney, rocking Owen until his breathing slowed.

Jake paced the small space, his boots squeaking on the clean floor.

“How did Vance get past the gate?” Jake asked, his voice shaking with anger.

“He still has active credentials,” Reyes said, leaning against the concrete wall.

“He’s a Captain, Jake. Until those credentials are flagged, he has the run of this post.”

“But he signed my casualty report,” Jake said.

“Exactly,” Reyes said, pulling a yellow folder from his leather bag.

“Your brother Logan couldn’t have done this alone. He didn’t have the clearance.”

“Logan knew Vance from the country club,” I said, remembering the summer parties.