“You did that to yourself,” I said.

“Listen to me very carefully,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“I’m opening the box now.”

Through the receiver, I heard the distinct sound of splintering wood.

He was forcing the brass lock.

“Grant, stop,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Then, another sound came through the line.

It was the distant, muffled echo of sirens.

Grant swore loudly, the phone rustling as if he had dropped it.

“They’re here,” he screamed.

The line suddenly went dead.

The silence in the room was deafening.

I lowered the phone, my fingers trembling against the hard plastic casing.

“He’s at the self-storage facility off Route 1,” General Vale said, his voice calm and steady.

He was already speaking into his secure line, directing the military police and local authorities.

“We have his location pinged,” Vale told me, looking up from his screen.

“Is he going to burn it?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“Not if the Fairfax County deputies get there first,” Naomi Pierce said, closing her laptop with a sharp snap.