Chapter 3 - The Contract
I didn't sleep.
Not really.
I closed my eyes for twenty minutes at a time and woke hearing Richard's shoulder slam into my door.
At six the next morning, Naomi Grant sat across from me in secure housing while Marcus stood near the window.
Between us lay a printed copy of the document found inside the lockbox.
My forged signature.
Mercer's real—or possibly forged—signature.
A federal contracting number.
And the name:
Atlantic Meridian Logistics.
"I've never heard of them," I said.
Naomi nodded.
"They existed for nineteen months."
"Past tense?"
"Dissolved."
"What did they do?"
"Officially? Logistics support, housing renovation, equipment transport."
"And unofficially?"
"That's what we're trying to determine."
Marcus read the contract.
"This amount can't be right."
It was.
Six-point-four million dollars.
My name appeared as a verifying officer on an authorization I had never seen.
"Where was I when this was signed?"
Naomi slid another page forward.
"USS Hartford support assignment. Mediterranean."
"I wasn't even in the country."
"Which makes the signature easy to disprove."
"Then why use me?"
"Maybe because you were gone."
That answer made sick sense.
A deployed officer.
A legitimate service record.
A family connection to a contractor.
Someone could use pieces of my identity while assuming I would never look.
But why would Commander Mercer be involved?
He had been a captain then, serving in regional procurement oversight.
It was possible his signature had been forged too.
I wanted that to be true.
Naomi didn't.
Investigators don't want stories.
They want proof.
"Mercer has been temporarily restricted from accessing certain systems," she said.
"Does he know why?"
"He knows there's an internal review."
"Does he know his name appeared beside mine?"
"Not from us."
Marcus crossed his arms.
"Then who sent Ava the warning?"
"We're tracing it."
My phone buzzed.
All three of us looked.
This time, a normal number.
My mother's.
I answered instantly.
"Mom?"
A man spoke.
"Ava Reynolds?"
My chest tightened.
"Who is this?"
"Your mother asked me to call."
"Put her on."
"I can't."
"Then tell me where she is."
"She came to me yesterday."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Thomas Bell."
Naomi was already typing the name into her tablet.
Thomas continued.
"I'm an accountant."
"For Richard?"
"Formerly."
I gripped the phone.
"Where is my mother?"
"Safe for the moment."
"That's not good enough."
"I agree."
His voice sounded exhausted.
"She discovered Richard had been using subcontracting companies to move money connected to federal contracts. She was afraid he'd find out she copied the records."
"Did he?"
"Yes."
"Why attack me?"
"Because your name was in the records."
"Used without my permission."
"I know."
"Does Richard?"
A pause.
"Richard knows you weren't involved."
That made the room still.
"Then why did he come after me?"
"Because he thought your mother had sent you the evidence."
Naomi leaned close to my phone.
"Mr. Bell, this is Special Agent Naomi Grant with NCIS. We need your location."
Thomas stopped talking.
"Mr. Bell?"
Then he laughed once.
Not happily.
"She told me Navy investigators might be involved."
"We're trying to protect Mrs. Lawson."
"You can't protect her from people inside your own system."
Marcus and I exchanged a look.
"Who?" Naomi asked.
"I don't know."
"Then what do you know?"
"I know Richard isn't the top of this."
That was the first moment I considered the possibility that my stepfather's fear at the alert hadn't been fear of arrest.
Maybe he had been afraid of who the alert would bring.
Thomas gave us an address.
A motel outside Richmond.
Naomi organized a secure pickup.
I wasn't allowed to go.
This time, I didn't argue.
For two hours we waited.
At 9:32, Naomi received a call.
Her face changed.
"What happened?"
She listened.
"Is anyone hurt?"
Marcus stepped closer.
I stood.
Naomi ended the call.
"The motel room was empty."
"Empty?"
"Recently vacated."
"Where's my mother?"
"We don't know."
"What about Thomas?"
"Gone."
I felt the room tilt.
"Was there a struggle?"
"No."
"Then they left voluntarily."
"Possibly."
"Or somebody made them leave."
Naomi didn't answer.
A message arrived on my phone.
Unknown number again.
ONE PERSON IN YOUR COMMAND KNOWS WHY YOUR NAME WAS USED.
A second message followed.
ASK WHO APPROVED CONTRACT 47-B.
Marcus took the phone.
"Contract forty-seven B."
He searched the printed paperwork.
There it was.
Atlantic Meridian Logistics.
47-B.
Naomi began making calls.
Twenty-seven minutes later, we had a name.
Not Mercer.
Rear Admiral Jonathan Vance.
At the time, Vance had chaired a regional infrastructure oversight board.
Now he served at the Pentagon.
I had met him twice.
Both times at formal events.
Both times he had shaken my hand.
My stomach turned.
"Could his authorization be procedural?" I asked.
"Absolutely," Naomi said.
"Could he have no idea?"
"Absolutely."
"Could he be involved?"
Naomi looked at me.
"Absolutely."
That afternoon, Richard's attorney requested a plea discussion.
Naomi attended.
So did federal prosecutors.
Richard still refused to speak about my mother.
But he offered one sentence.
Tell Ava to stop looking.
Naomi asked why.
Richard replied:
Because they already know she's alive.
That sentence made no sense.
Until it did.
Alive.
Why phrase it that way?
Not "where she is."
Not "what she's doing."
Alive.
As though someone had expected me not to survive the attack.
I replayed the night.
Richard had been violent.
Terrifying.
But after the distress signal, his behavior shifted.
He hadn't tried to finish the assault.
He had panicked.
This wasn't supposed to happen, he'd said.
Maybe he hadn't meant the signal.
Maybe he'd meant me surviving long enough to send it.
When Naomi left to coordinate with federal investigators, Marcus stayed.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Richard wasn't supposed to leave me able to talk."
Marcus's jaw tightened.
"That's a possibility."
"But he did."
"He also came unarmed."
"Richard owns guns."
"I know."
That mattered.
If he'd been sent to kill me, he was terribly unprepared.
Unless he hadn't been sent to kill me.
Maybe he had been sent to retrieve something and lost control.
That fit Richard better.
Violence was his instinct, not his plan.
My mother, however, had become the central unknown.
Where was she?
Who was helping her?
What had she copied?
By evening, Naomi returned with news.
The FBI had joined the case.
Rear Admiral Vance's office was cooperating.
Commander Mercer had been formally interviewed.
"And?"
"He denied knowing Richard Lawson."
"But Richard recognized him."
"Mercer says he didn't."
"What about the signature?"
"Mercer says he did sign documents connected to 47-B, but your name wasn't on the version he approved."
That possibility was worse.
Someone may have altered the paperwork afterward.
"Can it be proven?"
"We're looking for archived originals."
Marcus stared at the contract copy.
"Who benefits from adding Ava's name?"
Naomi answered quietly.
"Someone who needed a legitimate officer to absorb blame if the contract was ever investigated."
There it was.
I wasn't chosen because of who I was.
I was chosen because I was useful.
Deployed.
Young.
Connected by family to a contractor.
A perfect future scapegoat.
My phone rang again.
My mother.
Everyone froze.
I answered.
This time she spoke immediately.
"Ava, don't interrupt me."
"Mom—"
"Please."
Her voice was steadier.
"I found records in Richard's office eight months ago. Contracts, bank transfers, names. Your name was there. I knew you hadn't signed them."
"Where are you?"
"I tried to copy everything. Richard caught me."
My throat tightened.
"Did he hurt you?"
"Not then."
"Mom."
"I left yesterday."
"With Thomas?"
"Yes."
"Where are you now?"
Silence.
"Mom?"
"Thomas isn't who he said he was."
Naomi moved closer.
"What happened?"
My mother began crying.
"He took the drive."
"What drive?"
"The one with everything."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
"Where are you?"
"I got away."
"Tell us where you are."
"I'm near—"
A loud sound cut through the call.
My mother's voice stopped.
Then another voice came through.
Male.
Calm.
Familiar.
"Ava."
I knew that voice.
I had heard it in briefings.
Ceremonies.
Official addresses.
May you like
Rear Admiral Jonathan Vance.
The line went dead.
