I felt a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck.

The routing code matched the personal terminal of someone I had trusted for five years.

“It can’t be,” I muttered.

“Who is it?” Madison asked, her hand gripping my shoulder. “Natalie, who signed it?”

I did not answer her.

I stared at the three-letter designation at the end of the routing string: *H-A-Y.*

It was a designation used by only one man in the entire eastern command.

Colonel Hayes.

My commanding officer.

The man who had signed my promotion.

The man who had sent me home on leave to “rest” after my last deployment.

“He told me to come here,” I said, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. “He said I needed to spend time with my family.”

“Colonel Hayes is a very practical man,” my father said. “He understands the importance of maintaining our supply lines.”

“What supply lines?” Madison asked, looking between us. “What are you talking about?”

“Military logistics is a multi-billion dollar industry, Madison,” my father said. “Sometimes, surplus inventory needs to be relocated.”