Chapter 2 - The Warehouse on Remington
Rain began to slick the asphalt as I pulled into the overgrown access road off Remington Avenue. The area was a wasteland of rusted shipping containers, dilapidated textile mills, and cracked concrete.
At the end of the alley stood Warehouse 14—a cavernous, corrugated steel structure with blacked-out windows and a single high-intensity security light shining over a heavy metal door.
Parked near the loading dock was Julian’s sleek black Porsche Taycan. Beside it sat a dark grey, tinted SUV with diplomatic plates.
I parked three blocks away in the shadow of an abandoned freight train car, cutting my headlights. I removed my ruined uniform tunic, leaving me in my black tactical undershirt, cargo trousers, and boots. From under the passenger seat, I retrieved my encrypted tactical tablet and synced it to the transponder’s audio feed.
The titanium chain possessed a low-frequency microphone meant for emergency field communications. I pressed a button on the screen, fitted an earpiece into my left ear, and listened.
A sharp, accented voice echoed through my earpiece over the hum of static.
"...is this a joke, Vance? You said you brought us the operational blueprints for the Midwestern defense corridor."
Julian’s voice replied, sounding nervous, breathy, and desperate to sound confident. "It’s better than blueprints, Viktor. It’s an active hardware token. It belonged to my brother—he’s an intelligence officer. This thing holds the cryptographic bypass for the entire regional supply registry."
A short silence followed, followed by the dry, mirthless laugh of the man named Viktor.
"A hardware token?" Viktor said smoothly. "Do you know what happens when a military hardware token goes dark, Julian? It pings the nearest Defense Information Systems Agency node within six minutes. Did you think your little brother wouldn't notice a piece of titanium missing from his neck?"
"He’s an idiot!" Julian insisted, his voice rising in pitch. "He’s a glorified paper-pusher! He sat there at dinner while my wife dumped wine on him and my father mocked his uniform, and he didn't do a single thing! He took it like he always does! He thinks he lost it in the sink!"
Sitting in my dark car three hundred yards away, I felt a cold, calm smile touch my lips.
Julian’s venture capital firm had been drowning in debt for eight months. I had seen the public filings three weeks ago, though I had kept quiet out of respect for my father’s health. Julian had been looking for a payday—a way to cover six million dollars in fraudulent offshore investments before his board initiated an independent audit next month.
He had tried to steal what he thought was a trophy of my military service to sell to foreign defense contractors.
I tapped the screen, opening a direct, encrypted satellite channel to the Regional Defense Criminal Investigative Service (DCIS) field office in Chicago.
"Special Agent Vance," I said into my collar mic. "I am executing an emergency recovery of classified asset Bravo-9 at Warehouse 14 on Remington Avenue. Target is currently attempting an unauthorized transfer of military logistics hardware to a foreign broker. Requesting immediate federal backstop and perimeter lockdown."
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A crisp voice answered within two seconds. "Copy that, Captain Vance. Regional tactical units are four minutes out. Hold your position until team arrival."
"Negative, Control," I replied, opening my driver's door and stepping into the rain. "The exchange is happening right now. I’m moving in."
