The wood groaned as the nails gave way with a sharp metallic pop.

He pulled the lid back to reveal rows of heavy, custom-molded foam inserts.

Inside the foam sat six pristine, olive-drab canisters labeled with high-grade optical warning stickers.

“These aren’t truck axles,” Vance said, pulling one of the canisters out.

“Those are night-vision targeting modules for Apache helicopters,” I said.

“They’re brand new,” Vance said, shining his light on the manufacturer’s seal. “The serial numbers are active.”

Eleanor took a step closer, her eyes wide as she looked into the open crate. “What does this mean?”

“It means Gregory’s company is taking active military inventory, reporting it as scrap, and keeping it,” I said.

“He is buying them for pennies on the dollar as waste, then reselling them on the black market,” Vance added.

I walked further into the dim warehouse, my flashlight beam cutting through the shadows.

There were dozens of similar crates, all labeled as low-value surplus.

I found a stack of metal filing cabinets tucked behind a generator near the back wall.

On top of the cabinets sat a clipboard with a stack of yellow shipping manifests.