Mara’s voice was barely audible.
“What is Price’s rank now?”
Whitaker looked at his aide.
The aide was already checking.
“Sir,” the aide said after a moment, “Matthew Price. Civilian defense contractor. Former Marine major. Consultant on ceremonial weapons maintenance contract through Westbridge Tactical Systems.”
Mara closed her eyes.
Not Harlan.
His son.
“Family business,” she said.
Whitaker looked at her.
“You know him?”
“I knew his father.”
The armory door opened.
Two MPs emerged with weapons ready.
“Building clear, sir. No Callahan.”
“Evidence?”
“Desk overturned in the rear office. One wall locker open. Looks like someone searched it.”
Mara said, “Or removed something.”
Whitaker turned to the corporal.
“Lock down the building. Nobody enters without NCIS.”
The corporal stiffened.
“NCIS, sir?”
Whitaker’s voice lowered.
“Possible sabotage. Possible assault on U.S. military personnel. Possible evidence tampering.”
“Yes, sir.”
A radio crackled.
The MP at the corner lifted it, listened, then looked at Whitaker.
“Sir. Staff Sergeant Callahan found near the maintenance shed. Alive. Head injury. Semi-conscious.”
Mara started moving before anyone told her.
Whitaker followed.
They found Callahan on his side behind the shed, one hand pressed weakly to his temple.
His arrogance was gone.
So was his color.
A thin line of blood ran behind his ear.
Two MPs stood over him while a corpsman checked his pupils.
Callahan blinked when he saw Mara.
Fear hit his face first.
Not guilt.
Fear.
“Stay away,” he rasped.
Mara stopped several feet from him.
Whitaker stepped closer.
“Staff Sergeant.”
Callahan tried to sit up.
The corpsman held him down.
“Don’t move.”
Whitaker’s voice remained controlled.
“Why did you fail to report?”
Callahan swallowed.
“I was going. Someone called me.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Mara watched his eyes.
The pupils were uneven.
Concussion likely.
But fear was real.
“He said he knew what happened. Said if I didn’t want to take the fall, come to the shed.”
Whitaker’s face hardened.
“And?”
Callahan’s breathing shook.
“I came. Somebody hit me from behind.”
Mara said, “Did you see him?”
Callahan’s eyes flicked to her.
For the first time all day, he looked at her like she was not beneath him.
He looked at her like she might be the only person standing between him and a grave.
“Gray suit,” he whispered. “Contractor badge. He said…”
His eyes fluttered.
Mara crouched.
Callahan tried to turn away.
She did not touch him.
“What did he say?”
Callahan’s lips trembled.
“He said ghosts should stay buried.”
The words struck Mara with such force that the shed, the asphalt, the corpsman, and the MPs vanished for half a second.
Ghosts should stay buried.
Not a random threat.
Not a phrase someone guessed.
A message.
For her.
Whitaker saw the change in her.
“Mara.”
She rose slowly.
“Matthew Price is on base.”
The general turned to his aide.
“Find him. Now.”
The aide spoke rapidly into a phone.
Mara looked toward the parade deck.
Families.
New Marines.
Caleb.
The crowd was still too large.
Too open.
Too unaware.
“If Price sabotaged the rifle,” she said, “he didn’t do it just to hurt random Marines.”
Whitaker’s mouth tightened.
“He did it to create chaos.”
“And isolate Callahan.”
“Why?”
Mara’s gaze moved to the tattoo on her forearm.
“Because Callahan humiliated me publicly before the malfunction. Price wanted a scene. He wanted eyes on me. Then smoke. Then blood. Then a message.”
Whitaker understood.
“He knew you would respond.”
“Yes.”
“And once you responded, everyone would know who you were.”
“Or enough people would start asking.”
Whitaker’s face darkened.
“He wanted to flush you out.”
Mara nodded.
“Or punish me for not staying invisible.”
The aide returned, pale.
“Sir. Matthew Price’s visitor badge was logged out eight minutes ago at the north gate.”
Whitaker’s voice snapped.
“Stop him.”
“Gate says vehicle already cleared.”
“What vehicle?”
“Black SUV. Rental plate.”
“Notify CHP. Base police. NCIS. I want every road out of here covered.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mara said, “He won’t take the main highway.”
Everyone looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because his father taught him better.”
Whitaker’s eyes narrowed.
“You know where he’d go?”
Mara looked toward the western service road.
“Not where. Why.”
She turned to the MP corporal.
“Did the demonstration team use any recording equipment? Cameras? Safety review footage?”
“Yes, ma’am. Fixed camera, staff camera, maybe public affairs.”
“Where is the fixed footage stored?”
“Safety office server.”
“Who has access?”
The corporal hesitated.
Whitaker said, “Answer.”
“Safety officer, armory admin, contractor liaison.”
Mara’s voice went cold.
“Price doesn’t need to escape yet. He needs to delete something.”
Whitaker turned sharply.
“Safety office.”
They moved.
This time, nobody pretended not to run.
The safety office was a small administrative building near the reviewing stand, close enough to the parade deck that the crowd noise still pressed against its windows.
The hallway smelled like coffee, copier toner, and old carpet.
A young lance corporal at the front desk stood when General Whitaker entered.
“Sir—”
“Who’s in the server room?”
“No one, sir.”
Mara looked at the desk.
A paper visitor log lay open.
The last line was blank.
Too blank.
Indentations marked the sheet beneath it.
She picked up a pencil and shaded lightly across the page.
Letters appeared from pressure marks.
M. PRICE.
Time in: 10:01.
No time out.
Mara held up the page.
“He’s here.”
The lance corporal went pale.
“Sir, I didn’t see—”
A crash sounded from the rear of the building.
The MPs moved first.
Mara moved with them.
Whitaker grabbed her arm.
“Behind me.”
She looked at his hand.
He released it.
“Please,” he said, quieter.
That stopped her more effectively than command.
They advanced down the hallway.
An exit door at the end hung partly open.
A computer tower lay on its side inside a records room.
A ceiling panel had been shoved aside.
One MP looked up.
“Movement overhead.”
Another crash.
Then dust fell.
Mara’s head turned.
“He’s not going up. He wants you looking up.”
She pointed to the rear filing cabinets.
A narrow service door behind them stood cracked open.
The MPs swung toward it.
Too late.
A man burst through the side exit into the parking lot.
Gray suit.
Contractor badge.
Laptop bag in one hand.
He ran hard for the line of vehicles near the curb.
“Price!” Whitaker shouted.
The man looked back.
For half a second, Mara saw Harlan Price’s face in a younger man’s skin.
Same narrow eyes.
Same entitled panic when consequence finally found the door.
Matthew Price reached into his jacket.
“Gun!” an MP yelled.
People scattered.
Mara saw the angle.
Saw the families beyond the lot.
Saw Caleb crossing toward the commotion because of course Caleb had not stayed where he was told.
She moved before permission existed.
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