CHAPTER 1: THE PERIMETER CHECK The turnstile at the Fort Meade Advanced Systems lab didn’t click; it hummed, a clean, synthetic sound that grated against the quiet afternoon. Thomas “Mac” MacAllister kept his calloused thumb hooked into the heavy denim strap of his overalls, his other hand pressing a folded, yellowed envelope against the brushed…
CHAPTER 1: THE WEIGHT OF THE LINE The air inside the Douglas County Administration Building smelled faintly of industrial lemon bleach and the heavy, sour dampness of forty citizens waiting in a room with a failing air conditioning unit. Arthur Vance adjusted his grip on the manila envelope. The paper was thick, compressed fiber, heavy…
CHAPTER 1: THE FRICTION OF IRON The heat inside the hangar didn’t move; it settled into the marrow like the damp air of a low-altitude tarmac before dawn. Frank “Mac” MacAllister kept his right thumb hooked inside the lip of his denim pocket, his skin catching on the coarse weave until it met the cold,…
CHAPTER 1: THE FAULT IN THE LINE The third shot was low and left. It hit the dirt three inches below the steel silhouette, kicking up a miniature geyser of gray Texas limestone that peppered the base of the sandbag wall. Arthur Stafford did not adjust his stance. He stood six feet back from the…
CHAPTER 1: THE SHARP EDGE OF UNYIELDING CONCRETE The sharp sound of cracking plastic and wet grease hitting the sun-bleached concrete cut through the low hum of the training yard’s diesel generators before anyone could check the perimeter line. My knuckles didn’t shake as the tray left my fingers. I kept my weight settled low,…
CHAPTER 1: THE FRICTION OF EXCLUSION The security gate smelled of cold zinc and the chemical signature of cheap plastic identification cards. It was a sterile, high-ceilinged sorting pen designed to filter out the small, inconvenient realities of the outside world before they could touch the polished wood of the main gallery. Beyond the stanchions,…
CHAPTER 1: THE FRICTION OF EXHAUSTED COFFEE The ice water hit the small of his back first, a flat, heavy palm of cold that flattened his black shirt against the ridge of his spine. It didn’t startle Miller. Panic was a luxury for people who still believed the world was an inherently soft place to…
CHAPTER 1: THE MARBLE THRESHOLD The administrative desk at the entrance of the General Omar Bradley Memorial Hall did not click or hum; it swallowed sound entirely. Thomas stood on the perimeter of the chevron-patterned marble, his calloused thumbs hooked into the shallow pockets of his black windbreaker. The fabric was thin, cheap synthetic that…
CHAPTER 1: THE WEIGHT OF DEBRIS The heat came off the asphalt in dry, invisible waves, carrying the bitter scent of scorched fescue and the chemical tang of cheap packing tape. Arthur didn’t move from the third step of his porch. His thumbs were tucked into the waist of his dark work pants, his fingers…
CHAPTER 1: THE ACCORDION OF THE PERIMETER The spade split a dry root with a short, metallic snap that vibration traveled right through Arthur’s calloused palms, but he didn’t look up until the heavy door of the Ford Interceptor clicked open at the curb. The heat off the asphalt was thick, smelling of old oil…