Chapter 3 - What Happened to Their Handler
Nobody had called me Evie in nine years.
Nobody except Logan.
The emergency lights flashed red.
Atlas barked toward the hallway.
I ran.
Bell shouted after me.
Pike shouted something else.
I did not care.
I reached the service door and pulled.
Still locked.
“Logan!”
No answer.
I hit the metal with both hands.
“Logan!”
Ghost scratched at the bottom.
Ranger paced.
Atlas stood rigid, nose working.
Then I heard footsteps behind the door.
Not approaching.
Moving away.
“Override!”
The security officer’s voice came over the radio.
“I’m trying! Someone cut the local network.”
Bell appeared beside me.
“Mechanical release?”
Lang pointed down the corridor.
“Maintenance room.”
We ran.
Pike remained behind with two armed security personnel Bell had ordered to watch him.
The maintenance room door was open.
Inside, cables hung from an access panel.
Cut cleanly.
Whoever had shut down the system knew exactly what they were doing.
I found the manual release diagram.
The service door used a hydraulic lock.
There was a hand valve behind the panel.
Bell turned it.
The lock released.
I ran back.
Atlas got there first.
The door opened into darkness.
The smell of cigarettes was stronger.
“Stay behind me,” Bell said.
I gave him a look.
He sighed.
“Fine. Beside me.”
We entered together.
The dogs ignored both choices and went ahead.
The corridor was narrow.
Six doors lined one side.
Old treatment rooms.
Some held empty cages.
Others contained medical equipment covered in plastic.
At the end stood a stairwell.
Atlas rushed down.
We followed.
The basement should not have existed.
It did not appear on the facility plans posted upstairs.
Yet beneath the K9 building was another level containing offices, storage lockers, communications equipment, and what looked like an interview room.
The kind without windows.
Ghost stopped outside it.
The door was open.
A chair lay on its side.
Fresh blood marked the floor.
Not much.
Enough.
I crouched.
Still wet.
“Someone was here minutes ago.”
Bell called security.
No signal.
The basement walls blocked radio transmission.
I moved toward the desk.
There were restraints attached to the chair.
My stomach turned.
“What kind of dog facility needs this room?”
Bell had no answer.
Atlas sniffed the blood and growled.
Then moved toward a second door.
Beyond it was a long storage space filled with file boxes.
Some were labeled with operational codes.
Others had dates.
One box carried a handwritten identifier.
MERCER, L.
I stopped breathing.
Bell saw it.
“Evelyn.”
I opened the box.
Photographs.
Medical records.
Transfer documents.
A casualty reassessment form.
I picked up the first photograph.
Logan.
Older than the last time I had seen him.
A scar crossed his left cheek.
He was standing beside three military working dogs.
Atlas.
Ranger.
Ghost.
The photograph was dated eighteen months ago.
My brother had been alive eighteen months ago.
My knees nearly failed.
Bell caught my arm.
I pulled away, not because he had done anything wrong, but because I needed to stand under my own power.
“Eighteen months,” I whispered.
Nine years of memorial services, birthdays, Christmases, my mother leaving one plate untouched at Thanksgiving because grief made people irrational.
Nine years.
And someone had photographed him eighteen months ago.
I turned the picture over.
Three words were written on the back.
COLE KNOWS EVERYTHING.
Mason Cole.
The missing handler.
I tore through the box.
Deployment records showed Logan’s helicopter had gone down exactly as reported.
But the casualty list had been altered.
Two men died at the crash site.
Three were recovered alive.
Logan was one of them.
He had been transferred to a classified medical facility after suffering a traumatic brain injury.
Later pages were missing.
Bell read over my shoulder.
“This program designation... I’ve never seen it.”
“Who would?”
“Pike.”
Of course.
A low growl came from Ghost.
I turned.
He was facing a cabinet.
Not the door.
The cabinet.
We moved it.
Behind it was a recessed passage.
Atlas entered immediately.
The tunnel ended at a loading area outside the main building.
A delivery vehicle was pulling away.
White van.
No markings.
“Stop!” I shouted.
It accelerated.
Bell and I ran outside.
Too late.
The van disappeared behind a security building.
I memorized the partial plate.
7KJ.
Then Atlas barked toward the ground.
A man lay behind a stack of pallets.
Dr. Lang.
Blood at his temple.
Alive.
Barely.
Bell knelt.
“Peter?”
Lang opened his eyes.
“Cole.”
“What about him?”
“Alive.”
I leaned closer.
“Where?”
Lang swallowed.
“Pike kept him hidden.”
“Why?”
“He found Logan.”
I felt pressure inside my chest.
“Tell me where my brother is.”
Lang tried to sit.
Couldn’t.
“They moved him.”
“Who?”
“Not Pike alone.”
Bell looked at me.
That mattered.
If Pike was not the top of whatever this was, arresting him would not end anything.
Lang gripped my wrist.
“The dogs know the route.”
Then he lost consciousness.
Medical teams arrived minutes later.
Pike was placed under temporary detention pending investigation.
He still refused to speak.
Bell sealed the K9 facility.
But secrets that had survived nine years did not disappear because someone put tape across a door.
I stayed with the dogs.
That evening, after Lang had been transferred to the base hospital, I returned to Kennel Seven with Cole’s phone.
Atlas lay near the door.
Ranger slept with one ear raised.
Ghost watched me.
“You three knew,” I said.
They probably knew only pieces.
Smells.
Routes.
People.
Fear.
Dogs did not understand conspiracies.
They understood who hurt them.
Who fed them.
Who disappeared.
Who came back.
Cole had trusted them because people had become dangerous.
I opened his phone again.
There was another hidden folder.
It required a fingerprint.
Impossible.
Then I noticed the cracked protective case.
Inside the back panel, Cole had taped a thin strip of paper.
A sequence of letters and numbers.
I entered them.
The folder opened.
Maps.
Photographs.
Audio recordings.
One image showed Logan entering a vehicle with Cole.
Another showed Pike meeting a man in civilian clothes.
The face was partially turned away.
Bell entered behind me.
“What did you find?”
I showed him.
His expression changed when he saw the civilian.
“You know him.”
Bell did not answer immediately.
“Captain?”
“That’s Rear Admiral Thomas Vance.”
I knew the name.
Everyone did.
Vance had supervised several classified working-dog and special operations support programs before retiring.
He was respected.
Decorated.
Untouchable.
Or he had been.
“What is he doing meeting Pike?”
Bell zoomed in.
The date was six months ago.
After Cole vanished.
“Whatever it is,” Bell said, “it’s bigger than this installation.”
I opened an audio file.
Cole’s voice.
“If Mercer’s sister ever comes here, do not let Pike isolate her.”
I looked at Bell.
“He knew I was coming.”
“Apparently.”
“How?”
The recording continued.
“I requested Captain Evelyn Mercer specifically because Logan said she was the only person he still trusted.”
My throat tightened.
Then Cole spoke again.
“If she finds the dogs, Atlas will take her to the north route.”
Atlas raised his head at his name.
I looked toward the kennel door.
“North route.”
Bell pulled up the base map.
North of the K9 facility were abandoned training grounds, a decommissioned ammunition storage area, and three old bunkers.
One road continued beyond the perimeter toward federal land.
“We go now,” I said.
Bell shook his head.
“We need a team.”
“If Vance is involved, every official request gives him warning.”
“You’re suggesting we walk into an unknown site with three dogs?”
“I’ve done worse.”
“That does not make it smart.”
Atlas stood.
He walked to the door.
Ghost and Ranger followed.
Bell stared at them.
I smiled without humor.
“Looks like my team is ready.”
We left after midnight.
No lights.
No convoy.
One unmarked truck.
Bell drove.
I sat beside him.
The dogs were in back.
Atlas remained restless until we reached the old northern road.
Then he became still.
One mile later, he barked.
Bell stopped.
A narrow dirt track disappeared between trees.
We followed it on foot.
Ghost led.
Half a mile in, we found the remains of an old temporary camp.
Food containers.
Medical wrappers.
Dog tracks.
And cigarette butts.
Fresh.
Ranger found a jacket.
Inside the pocket was another metal tag.
M. COLE.
Mason Cole had been there.
Then Atlas pulled toward an underground bunker.
The steel entrance stood partly open.
Light spilled through the gap.
I drew my sidearm.
Bell did the same.
We approached.
Inside, someone coughed.
I pushed the door wider.
A man sat handcuffed to a pipe.
Thin.
Bearded.
Bruised.
Alive.
He looked up.
“Mason Cole?” I asked.
His eyes went directly to Atlas.
The dog made a sound I had never heard from him before.
Not a bark.
Almost a cry.
Cole fell to his knees as soon as Bell cut the restraints.
Atlas pressed against him.
Ranger and Ghost crowded close.
Cole buried his face in their fur.
For several seconds, none of us spoke.
Then Cole looked at me.
“You’re Evelyn.”
“Yes.”
“He said you’d come.”
My pulse jumped.
“Logan?”
Cole nodded.
“Where is he?”
Cole looked toward the bunker entrance.
His face changed.
“He was here ten minutes ago.”
A vehicle engine started outside.
May you like
Cole whispered one name.
“Vance.”
