Chapter 3 - Somebody Was Watching
Cole took the photograph from my hand.
His eyes moved over it once.
Then again.
“Where was this taken from?”
I already knew.
“The rear doorway.”
Mercer looked toward the hallway.
“Camera?”
“No.”
I pointed to the angle.
“Person.”
Cole was out the door before Mercer could stop him.
I followed.
“Bennett, stay here.”
“No.”
“That was an order.”
“You're not my drill instructor in this conversation anymore.”
He turned.
For a second, the old Cole returned.
Then his eyes dropped to the photograph.
“Fine. Stay behind me.”
We moved through the corridor.
Nothing.
Two administrative clerks.
A maintenance worker.
Three recruits carrying equipment.
Nobody running.
Nobody looking suspicious.
That was the problem with military installations.
Almost everyone had a reason to be somewhere.
Mercer alerted military police without explaining the entire situation.
Within fifteen minutes, investigators were checking hallway cameras.
The rear barracks entrance had no direct coverage.
Convenient.
“Someone knew,” Cole said.
Mercer frowned.
“Knew what?”
“Where to stand.”
I looked at him.
He was right.
The photographer understood the building.
Understood inspection schedules.
Understood where cameras didn't reach.
This wasn't someone from Redwood who had wandered onto post.
This was someone with access.
Mercer ordered Evan moved temporarily to secured housing.
I refused an escort back to the barracks.
Cole ignored me and came anyway.
For several minutes we walked without speaking.
Finally he said, “I owe you an apology.”
I kept walking.
“I don't want one.”
“You're getting one.”
“That sounds like another order.”
For the first time, the corner of his mouth moved.
Barely.
Then his expression became serious.
“What I did in there was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“I thought I was correcting a discipline issue.”
“You thought humiliating me would prove something.”
“Yes.”
“At least you're consistent.”
He accepted that.
“I've seen recruits invent reasons to avoid discomfort.”
“I wasn't avoiding discomfort.”
“I know.”
“You know now.”
He stopped walking.
I took another step before turning.
Cole stood beneath the corridor lights.
“I spent fifteen years believing pressure reveals character.”
“It does.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“It revealed yours.”
That hit him.
I continued walking.
A minute later he caught up.
“You always this forgiving?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Back in the barracks, everyone became silent when I entered.
Exactly what I didn't want.
Mason approached carefully.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“That means no, right?”
“Usually.”
He nodded.
Then he looked at my jacket.
“I wasn't staring earlier.”
“You were.”
“Okay. I was. But not because—”
“Mason.”
He stopped.
“It's fine.”
He lowered his voice.
“People are saying Cole got called into command.”
“People say lots of things.”
“Also somebody was asking about you yesterday.”
I turned.
“Who?”
“Thought he was medical.”
“What did he look like?”
“Older guy. Maybe fifty. Civilian clothes.”
“Hair?”
“Gray.”
“Name?”
“He didn't give one.”
“What did he ask?”
“Whether you ever take your jacket off.”
My pulse jumped.
“When was this?”
“After range qualification.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I figured it was about the heat injury report.”
“What heat injury report?”
Mason frowned.
“You almost went down during the march. Hale in first squad reported it.”
“That wasn't me.”
His expression changed.
“What?”
“I didn't almost go down.”
“But we all saw—”
“No. I was tired. I wasn't disoriented.”
The memory came back.
A medic approaching after the march.
Scanning my identification card.
Asking whether I had prior burn injuries.
I had lied.
No.
He looked at me for a long time.
Then said someone had already flagged my record.
I assumed old medical documentation had surfaced.
Now I wasn't sure.
“Who filed the report?” I asked.
Mason shrugged.
I walked toward my locker.
The padlock was closed.
But something was wrong.
A tiny scratch near the keyhole.
Fresh.
I crouched.
Mason saw it.
“What?”
“My locker was opened.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Cole entered behind us.
“What happened?”
I pointed.
He called Mercer immediately.
Military police arrived again.
They photographed everything before cutting the lock.
Inside, my uniforms looked untouched.
My letters remained stacked.
Boots.
Cleaning supplies.
Notebook.
I pulled open the small internal drawer.
Empty.
My stomach dropped.
Cole saw my face.
“What was there?”
“A flash drive.”
“What was on it?”
“Nothing important.”
He stared.
I sighed.
“Copies of old Redwood news articles.”
“Why keep them?”
“Because articles disappear.”
“Anything else?”
“Photos.”
“Of?”
“Staff members.”
Cole's jaw tightened.
“Vale?”
“One photograph.”
Mercer entered.
“Anything classified?”
“No.”
“Sensitive?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
I thought.
Then realized something worse.
“My journal.”
Cole looked at the locker.
“Missing?”
I searched beneath the folded clothes.
Gone.
Mason whispered, “Damn.”
My journal contained memories from the fire.
Names.
Questions.
Things I recalled during nightmares.
Including Rachel's last words before we were separated.
Not the words from the break room.
Later.
Inside the burning east corridor.
She had shoved something into my hand.
I lost it while dragging a patient outside.
For years I couldn't remember what she'd said.
Three months ago, the memory returned.
Find the list.
I had written those words twenty-three times across one page.
Someone now had them.
Cole looked at me.
“What's in the journal that matters?”
“Rachel told me to find a list.”
“What list?”
“I don't know.”
Mercer frowned.
“Patient list?”
“Maybe.”
Evan, brought back under guard after hearing about the locker, shook his head.
“Not patients.”
We turned.
“How do you know?”
“Because Rachel said something to me too.”
I stared.
“When?”
“The night before the fire.”
“What?”
Evan looked uncomfortable.
“She asked if I knew what ‘Transfer Seven’ meant.”
Mercer became very still.
Cole noticed.
“You know.”
Mercer said nothing.
“Captain.”
“It's an old administrative designation.”
“For what?”
Mercer looked toward the investigators.
“Not here.”
We moved into a secure conference room.
Mercer closed the door.
“Transfer Seven was used unofficially for behavioral-health patients moved under restricted military orders.”
“Why unofficially?”
“Because some individuals didn't appear in normal referral systems.”
“Names?”
“Codes.”
Evan whispered, “Ghost patients.”
Mercer nodded.
I thought about Rachel.
“Seven people?”
“No. Seven was a category.”
“Who authorized it?”
Mercer hesitated.
“Different commands.”
“Vale?”
“I don't know.”
Cole leaned forward.
“You're lying.”
Mercer snapped, “Watch it.”
“You know more.”
Mercer's shoulders lowered.
“My father worked logistics at Redwood.”
I stared.
Nobody spoke.
“He died two years after the fire.”
“Did he know Rachel?” I asked.
“Yes.”
My heart beat harder.
“How?”
“He helped her copy records.”
There it was.
The room shifted again.
Mercer opened his phone.
“My father left me one voicemail about Redwood before he died. I thought it was paranoia.”
He pressed play.
Static.
An older man's voice:
Daniel, if anything happens to me, the Bell girl was right. The transfers weren't treatment. They were containment. Vale knows where the original list is.
The recording ended.
Evan sat down.
Cole whispered, “Containment of what?”
Mercer shook his head.
“I don't know.”
I looked at him.
“Your father said the original list still existed.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“He never told me.”
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A message.
I opened it.
A photograph appeared.
My missing journal lay open on a table.
Beside it was an old brass key.
Under the photograph:
YOU WANT RACHEL?
COME TO BUILDING 41.
ALONE.
Cole read it.
“No.”
I looked up.
“I'm going.”
“Absolutely not.”
“It may be our only lead.”
“It is obviously a trap.”
“Yes.”
“You don't walk into traps because they're obvious.”
“Sometimes you do if someone you thought was dead is waiting on the other side.”
Mercer pulled up a base map.
His face changed.
“What?”
Cole moved closer.
Mercer pointed.
“Building 41 was decommissioned twelve years ago.”
I looked at the coordinates.
The building sat near the old medical training area.
Evan went pale.
“What?”
He whispered, “That's where Vale met Rachel the week before the fire.”
My phone vibrated again.
This time the message contained no photograph.
Only four words.
SHE IS INSIDE NOW.
Then another message arrived.
A live image loaded.
A woman sat tied to a chair in a dark room.
Her face was turned toward the camera.
Older.
Thinner.
May you like
A scar on her left hand.
Rachel Bell was alive.
