The armored vehicle bounced so hard over the frozen road that my shoulder struck the door twice before we cleared the compound.
Mercer sat opposite me, rifle across his knees.
Neither of us mentioned the passport.
There were more urgent things to survive.
Two vehicles followed ours.
Six soldiers.
Lieutenant Harris stayed at the command post feeding intelligence into our encrypted channel.
Colonel Bell coordinated with regional headquarters.
Captain Lewandowski alerted Polish rapid-response units without revealing why.
The road cut through dense forest.
Snow remained beneath the trees even though rain had turned everything else into mud.
Mercer studied a tactical tablet.
“Voss’s convoy should be twelve kilometers ahead.”
“Should be?”
“They deviated.”
“Why?”
“Road construction.”
I stared at him.
“Was the construction scheduled?”
“No.”
Mercer looked up.
“That bothers you.”
“Everything bothers me this morning.”
His mouth twitched.
Almost a smile.
Almost.
Then he said, “About earlier—”
“No.”
He stopped.
“We survive this first.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The radio crackled.
Harris.
“General Carter, we recovered a fragment from Reese’s workstation.”
“Go.”
“Deleted route file. Eastern inspection schedule. But that’s not all.”
“What else?”
“Payment records.”
Mercer leaned toward the radio.
“From whom?”
“Still decrypting.”
A burst of static.
Then Harris returned.
“General, I’m seeing transfers routed through three shell companies.”
“Destination?”
“One account belongs to someone inside the base.”
“Who?”
“Working on it.”
The road turned sharply.
Our driver braked.
“Vehicle ahead!”
Everyone moved.
Mercer raised his rifle.
I looked through the rain-streaked windshield.
A utility truck sat sideways in the road.
Driver’s door open.
No one inside.
“Reese,” Mercer said.
“Maybe.”
We stopped fifty yards away.
Mercer ordered two soldiers forward.
I grabbed his sleeve.
“Look at the rear tire.”
He narrowed his eyes.
A wire ran beneath it.
“Trap.”
He swore.
Everyone backed away.
Seconds later, the abandoned truck exploded.
The blast punched through the forest.
Flames climbed thirty feet.
Mercer threw himself against me as debris struck the armored hull.
When silence returned, he pulled away.
“You hit?”
“No.”
“You?”
“Still ugly.”
“Good.”
He laughed once.
It was the first genuine human sound between us.
Then his face hardened.
“He expected pursuit.”
“Yes.”
“Which means Reese knew someone would figure it out.”
“Or someone warned him after my cover was exposed.”
Mercer looked at me.
The implication hurt.
Someone still inside the command post might be involved.
We rerouted.
Seven kilometers later, we found General Voss’s lead escort vehicle stopped beside the road.
No explosion.
No gunfire.
Just silence.
Mercer ordered everyone out.
We approached carefully.
The driver was alive.
Conscious.
Confused.
“What happened?” Mercer asked.
The soldier held his head.
“Roadblock. Men wearing allied maintenance uniforms.”
“Where’s General Voss?”
“They transferred him.”
My stomach dropped.
“Transferred him where?”
The soldier shook his head.
“They had authentic orders.”
Mercer and I looked at each other.
This was larger than one corrupt colonel.
Someone had access to legitimate credentials.
“Which direction?”
The soldier pointed toward an unmarked forestry road.
“North.”
We moved.
Rain became sleet.
The track narrowed until branches scraped both sides of the vehicle.
Then Harris came through again.
“General, I identified the second account.”
“Name.”
There was a pause.
Too long.
“Harris.”
“Sergeant Major Cole Mercer.”
Nobody moved.
Mercer stared at the radio.
The driver looked over his shoulder.
I said nothing.
Harris continued.
“Three transfers totaling eighty-four thousand dollars.”
Mercer's face hardened.
“That’s impossible.”
“Account ending four-seven-one-nine.”
Mercer closed his eyes.
“That’s mine.”
The vehicle stopped.
Every soldier inside looked toward him.
I raised my hand.
“No one touches their weapon.”
Mercer stared at me.
“General, I didn’t take money.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“That is my account.”
“I heard.”
“I can explain the account. I can’t explain the transfers.”
“Then explain the account.”
“My wife.”
His voice changed.
“Dana died eighteen months ago. That account was our emergency savings. I haven’t used it since.”
“Who had access?”
“Me. Her. Bank.”
“Anyone else know about it?”
He thought.
Then his expression shifted.
“Reese.”
“Why?”
“He helped me with survivor paperwork after she died.”
There it was.
A perfect frame.
A respected intelligence colonel planting payments into the account of an abrasive senior enlisted man.
If the conspiracy failed, Mercer became the obvious traitor.
Maybe that was why Reese had encouraged his worst instincts.
Maybe the arrogance was useful.
A man disliked by subordinates made a wonderful scapegoat.
“Harris,” I said, “freeze the account data. Do not distribute it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mercer stared at me.
“You believe me?”
“I believe evidence.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you get.”
We continued.
Twenty minutes later, we found General Voss.
Not in a bunker.
Not in enemy custody.
Standing beside a disabled armored SUV while three fake maintenance personnel attempted to force him into another vehicle.
The encounter lasted less than a minute.
Our soldiers surrounded them.
Two surrendered immediately.
The third ran.
Mercer caught him.
Hard.
He slammed the man against a tree, disarmed him, and raised his fist.
“Mercer!”
He stopped.
The prisoner spat blood into the mud.
“He sold you.”
Mercer froze.
“What?”
“Reese.”
The man smiled.
“He said you'd take the fall.”
Mercer’s fist trembled.
Then slowly lowered.
He handed the prisoner to another soldier.
That mattered.
More than he knew.
General Voss approached me.
Tall, gray-haired, furious.
“Carter.”
“Sir.”
“I was told you were still in Brussels.”
“That was the idea.”
He looked at Mercer.
“And him?”
“Complicated.”
Voss glanced toward the prisoner.
“Where is Reese?”
The captured man laughed.
“You're looking in the wrong direction.”
I turned.
“What does that mean?”
He looked directly at me.
“Reese isn't running east.”
A cold sensation settled in my stomach.
“He wanted you out here.”
Mercer understood simultaneously.
“The base.”
I grabbed my radio.
“Harris.”
Nothing.
“Harris, respond.”
Static.
Then another voice appeared.
Colonel Reese.
Calm.
Almost amused.
“General Carter.”
Mercer’s face darkened.
Reese continued.
“I wondered how long it would take you.”
“Where is Lieutenant Harris?”
“Safe for the moment.”
“What do you want?”
“What everyone wants.”
“Money?”
“No.”
There was a faint sound behind him.
Metal.
Doors.
People shouting.
Then Reese said:
“Access.”
The transmission ended.
Mercer stared south toward the invisible base.
“What access?”
I already knew.
The command post contained a NATO authentication server.
Not operational maps.
Not convoy schedules.
Something far more valuable.
Emergency authentication codes capable of verifying allied military communications across the entire sector.
If Reese stole them, fake orders could become indistinguishable from real ones.
He could redirect units.
Ground aircraft.
Move convoys.
Open gates.
Start incidents between allied forces.
I looked at Voss.
“Sir, we need to get back.”
He nodded.
Mercer climbed into the vehicle beside me.
The humiliation in the tent no longer mattered.
His career no longer mattered.
Even my identity no longer mattered.
Because somewhere behind us, the same command tent where Cole Mercer had called me “the little translator” was now the center of an attack.
And the only man inside who knew exactly what Reese was trying to steal was Lieutenant Daniel Harris.
If he was still alive.
---