Chapter 4 - The Man Who Had Been Looking for Me
“Don't open that door,” Dale said.
Samuel Everett laughed from the hallway.
Twenty-two years disappeared in the sound.
“Still giving orders you can't enforce, Dale?”
Marcus glanced toward the two police officers.
“Mr. Everett, step back from the door.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Shaw, I recommend you call your commanding officer before you embarrass yourself.”
Marcus's expression didn't change.
“I recommend you step back.”
Silence.
Then retreating footsteps.
Marcus opened the door.
Samuel Everett stood ten feet away.
Seventy now.
Silver hair.
Expensive gray suit.
A walking cane he clearly did not need.
Beside him stood a younger man carrying a leather briefcase.
Everett looked directly at me.
“Rebecca Mercer.”
“Hale.”
A tiny smile.
“Of course.”
Caleb moved slightly closer.
Everett looked at him.
“So that's Caleb.”
Every protective instinct in me ignited.
“Don't say his name.”
Everett's smile vanished.
“You still think this is personal.”
“You put his name in a ledger.”
That surprised him.
Barely.
But I saw it.
His eyes shifted toward the room.
“Nicholas.”
“You knew he kept records.”
“I knew Nicholas never threw anything away.”
“Did you kill him?”
Anna made a sound behind me.
Everett looked offended.
“No.”
“You expect me to believe you?”
“I stopped expecting that in 2004.”
Marcus stepped between us.
“Why are you here?”
“To prevent classified material from being mishandled.”
“You retired.”
“My obligations didn't.”
Dale laughed.
“That's the line they used on all of us.”
Everett's eyes moved to him.
“You benefited from those obligations.”
Dale's face went white.
I turned.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
Everett smiled again.
There it was.
The weapon wasn't classified authority.
It was information.
“You never told her?”
Dale said, “Shut up.”
“Tell me what?”
Everett leaned on his cane.
“After Section Seventeen was dismantled, your uncle needed help creating a clean life for you.”
I looked at Dale.
“What help?”
“Rebecca—”
Everett answered.
“Documents. Employment history. Financial separation from restricted programs.”
My stomach tightened.
“That wasn't illegal.”
“No.”
Everett's eyes hardened.
“But the money was.”
The room went quiet.
“What money?”
Dale stared at the floor.
I stepped toward him.
“What money?”
“Your house.”
I felt as if he had struck me.
“The house in Springfield?”
He nodded.
I had bought it when Caleb was three.
Small.
Old.
Cheap enough that Thomas and I had spent six years renovating it room by room.
The down payment had come from what Dale called my mother's remaining estate.
“My mother's inheritance.”
“There wasn't enough inheritance.”
I couldn't speak.
“How much?”
“Forty thousand.”
“From who?”
Dale looked at Everett.
I understood.
“No.”
“It wasn't like that.”
“You took money from him?”
“I took money from an account I believed had been created to settle displaced personnel.”
“Created by who?”
“Everett.”
My hands trembled.
Everett watched us with satisfaction.
“You see, Rebecca? Nobody stayed clean.”
I turned on him.
“What is 4-9 in Nicholas's book?”
His expression changed.
“Where is the book?”
“Answer me.”
“I need the book.”
“Why?”
“Because you don't understand what you're reading.”
“Then explain it.”
He looked at Marcus.
“This conversation is restricted.”
Marcus folded his arms.
“I'm comfortable being restricted.”
Everett ignored him.
“The payments tied to your identifier weren't payments to you.”
“What were they?”
“Containment expenses.”
Caleb frowned.
“Containment of what?”
Everett looked at him.
“Your mother.”
I almost laughed.
“You spent money watching me?”
“Protecting you.”
“For twenty-two years?”
“Sometimes those were the same thing.”
Rage replaced fear.
“You tracked my son.”
“Yes.”
Caleb stared at him.
“Why?”
Everett answered with chilling calm.
“Because your military accession changed the risk equation.”
“For who?”
“For everyone.”
I moved closer.
“What was Section Seventeen really doing?”
Everett looked at me.
“You already know.”
“No. Adrian said it had another purpose.”
That name broke his control.
Only for a second.
But it did.
“You've spoken to Vale?”
“Not yet.”
Everett checked his watch.
6:48.
“He asked you to meet him.”
Not a question.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“How?”
“Because Adrian has spent six months trying to reconstruct the archive.”
Marcus said, “Why?”
Everett turned.
“To expose it.”
“Expose what?”
“The reason Prague happened.”
My throat tightened.
“Tell me.”
“No.”
I stepped toward him.
“You watched me bury three friends. You told me Adrian was dead. You let me spend two decades believing I might have caused Prague. Tell me.”
Something shifted in his face.
Not remorse.
Weariness.
“Prague wasn't an operational failure.”
“I know.”
“It wasn't a betrayal either.”
Dale whispered, “Everett.”
He ignored him.
“The three analysts were intentionally sent into a compromised meeting.”
My legs almost gave out.
“You knew?”
“I learned later.”
“Who sent them?”
He hesitated.
That was all the confirmation I needed.
“You.”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Your team supervisor.”
“Adrian?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Everett looked toward the hallway.
For the first time, he seemed afraid.
“The person who created Section Seventeen.”
Marcus asked, “Name?”
Everett lowered his voice.
“General Matthew Rourke.”
I knew the name.
Everyone in the Army knew the name.
Rourke had retired fifteen years earlier as a celebrated four-star general.
Defense boards.
University lectures.
Books.
Television appearances.
Caleb had quoted him in an essay before enlistment.
I felt nauseated.
“Rourke created us?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Everett took a breath.
“Section Seventeen was presented as an intelligence-sharing experiment. That part was true.”
“And the other part?”
“It created a pipeline outside normal review.”
“For weapons?”
“Information first. Then logistics.”
Marcus's expression darkened.
“Unauthorized operations.”
Everett nodded.
“Operations Rourke believed were necessary.”
“Prague discovered them.”
“Yes.”
My voice barely worked.
“So he killed them.”
Everett didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Caleb stared at the table.
“My mother found out?”
“Eventually.”
I looked at Everett.
“Why didn't he kill me?”
“Adrian.”
The room went silent.
“Adrian protected you.”
“How?”
“By making Rourke believe you had evidence stored somewhere only you could retrieve.”
I stared.
“I didn't.”
“I know.”
“Rourke didn't.”
Marcus understood first.
“Dead-man leverage.”
“Yes.”
Everett nodded.
“As long as Rebecca lived, Rourke believed killing her might release evidence.”
“And Adrian?”
“Vale disappeared before Rourke could stop him.”
“You told us he died.”
“I was told to.”
I wanted to hit him.
Instead, I stood very still.
“Where has Adrian been?”
“I don't know.”
“Lie.”
“I genuinely don't.”
Everett looked toward the lockbox.
“But Nicholas might have.”
Anna stepped protectively in front of it.
“My father died because of this?”
Everett's expression softened unexpectedly.
“I tried to warn him.”
“That's not an answer.”
“No.”
Anna's voice cracked.
“Did my father die because of this?”
“Yes.”
The word broke something in the room.
She sat.
Marcus asked the question none of us wanted.
“Is Rourke still involved?”
Everett looked at him.
“Rourke is eighty-three.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“No.”
“Then who is?”
Everett looked at Caleb.
“The people who inherited what he built.”
I followed his gaze.
“You're saying Section Seventeen continued.”
“Not under that name.”
“Then what name?”
“I don't know.”
I didn't believe him.
The clock on the wall read 6:53.
Seven minutes.
Adrian.
I looked at Marcus.
He knew what I was thinking.
“No.”
“I have to go.”
“Absolutely not alone.”
“He said alone.”
“He also threatened your son.”
“No. He threatened information.”
“That is still leverage.”
Everett stepped forward.
“Do not meet Vale.”
I turned.
“Why?”
“Because Adrian believes exposing everything will end this.”
“And you don't?”
“I believe exposure will trigger people whose names neither of us knows.”
“You've had twenty-two years to solve that.”
“I spent twenty-two years making sure you stayed alive.”
“By spying on me?”
“Yes.”
“By tracking Caleb?”
“Yes.”
“By putting money under my identifier?”
“Yes.”
His voice broke for the first time.
“And if I had to do it again, I would.”
I stared at him.
He looked suddenly exhausted.
“I failed Prague,” he said. “I failed Adrian. I would not fail you.”
For one dangerous second, I believed him.
Then Marcus's phone rang.
He listened.
“Hotel security found something.”
“What?”
“Room 214 was checked under a false name this afternoon.”
“Is he there?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Marcus looked at me.
“They found a second room registered under the same card.”
“What room?”
“216.”
Next door.
“Who is in it?”
“They don't know.”
I looked at Everett.
He had gone pale.
“What?”
“Rebecca.”
“What?”
“If Adrian booked two rooms, don't go.”
“Why?”
His voice dropped.
“Because 216 was the number assigned to the Prague source.”
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
6:57 P.M.
I opened the message.
YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES.
A second message appeared.
BRING NICHOLAS REED'S NOTEBOOK.
I looked toward the table.
The notebook was gone.
Anna stood.
“What happened to it?”
Everyone searched at once.
Then Caleb pointed toward the hallway.
Everett's younger assistant was no longer there.
Marcus ran to the door.
The corridor was empty.
I looked at Everett.
“Who was that man?”
Everett didn't answer.
“Who was he?”
His voice came out barely above a whisper.
“I thought he worked for the Justice Department.”
My phone rang.
Not a message.
A call.
I answered.
For two seconds, there was only breathing.
Then Adrian Vale's voice spoke for the first time in twenty-two years.
“Rebecca, don't go to Room 214.”
My knees weakened.
“Adrian?”
A pause.
Then:
“Caleb is already in the wrong room.”
May you like
I spun around.
My son was gone.
