The payments had started three months before the ambush.

They were routed to a shell company registered in Panama.

The beneficial owner was listed as Cole Harrington.

My stomach turned.

The battlefield lie wasn’t just about cover-ups and medals.

It was a paid performance.

The signature at the bottom was Cole’s, written in his familiar, bold handwriting.

But there was a second signature next to his.

It was the Undersecretary of Defense, the same man who had signed the transfer orders Merritt just mentioned.

The fan on the laptop grew louder.

I heard a soft click from the hallway outside.

It sounded like the latch of the fire escape door at the end of the hall.

I frozen, my hand hovering over the trackpad.

The light in the hallway flickered.

A shadow stretched across the floorboards near my threshold.

The shadow was tall, wide-shouldered, and silent.

I reached down and closed the laptop lid halfway to block the screen’s glow.

The floorboard just outside my door creaked under a heavy weight.

My phone on the counter lit up with a silent text message.