Then Hale said, “Are you injured?”
“Not seriously.”
“What about the broader allegations?”
“Fear culture confirmed. Possible command interference. Local MPs detained me without verification.”
Hale exhaled.
“I’m activating the response team.”
“How quickly?”
“Ten minutes.”
That answer struck me as odd.
Washington was hundreds of miles away.
I frowned.
“You already have people nearby?”
“We planned for contingencies.”
I looked at the clock.
Something about her tone bothered me.
But my forehead hurt enough to make concentration difficult.
“Understood.”
“Elena.”
“Yes?”
“Once Sterling is secured, do not expand the investigation without authorization.”
I looked toward the door.
“Why?”
“Because your assignment is Sterling.”
“The reports suggest something larger.”
“We’ll handle that after your extraction.”
I had worked with Rebecca Hale for eight years.
She was the reason I transferred to Inspector General work.
She taught me the first rule of investigations:
Never fall in love with your original theory.
Now she sounded strangely committed to hers.
I stored the thought away.
“I’m returning to the mess hall.”
“No.”
“Hale—”
“That is an order.”
“I need the witnesses separated before Sterling gets to them.”
Pause.
Then: “Five minutes. The team will meet you there.”
The line disconnected.
The desk sergeant looked at me.
“Everything okay, Ma’am?”
I put the receiver down.
“Yes.”
But I was no longer certain.
The mess hall doors opened twenty-one minutes after Sterling had watched me leave in handcuffs.
I walked back inside alone.
The two MPs followed several steps behind.
Sterling was standing beside the serving counter, shouting at a soldier who was cleaning spilled gravy from the floor.
He turned when the doors opened.
At first he looked annoyed.
Then he saw me.
No cuffs.
No escort grip on my arms.
His face drained.
“What is this?”
I continued walking.
He looked at the MPs.
“Why is she not in a cell?”
Neither answered.
I stopped exactly where he had forced my face into the tray.
The ruined lunch had been removed.
A damp mark remained on the floor.
Sterling looked at my credential wallet.
Then at my face.
“No.”
The word came out quietly.
I opened the wallet.
“Colonel Elena Vance.”
He stared.
“Department of Defense Office of Inspector General.”
His shoulders dropped by perhaps half an inch.
That was all.
But the entire mess hall noticed.
I continued.
“For the last three months, my office has received reports involving improper punishment, payroll irregularities, intimidation of witnesses, retaliation, and misuse of command authority at this installation.”
Sterling’s eyes shifted toward Hayes.
Then Brenda.
Then Miller.
Looking for the traitor.
I saw it immediately.
“You’re wondering who reported you.”
“I’m wondering who filled your head with garbage.”
“Same question.”
His confidence returned by force.
“You spent three weeks pretending to be enlisted.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds like entrapment.”
“No.”
“You provoked me.”
“I asked you not to scream at a private.”
“You challenged my command.”
“In a cafeteria.”
“It’s my facility.”
“It belongs to the United States Army.”
His jaw clenched.
Outside, engines approached.
Not helicopters.
Vehicles.
Several.
Sterling looked toward the windows.
Black government SUVs stopped outside.
Doors opened.
Men and women in plain tactical uniforms stepped out.
Sterling whispered something I could not hear.
Then another voice came from behind us.
“Colonel Vance.”
Everyone turned.
The man entering from the administrative hallway wore a one-star general’s insignia.
Brigadier General Arthur Thorne.
Camp Vora’s commanding general.
According to his official travel schedule, Thorne was supposed to be in Washington.
He smiled.
“Interesting afternoon.”
My first thought was simple.
Why was he here?
Sterling looked relieved.
“General.”
Thorne barely acknowledged him.
His eyes remained on me.
“I understand we’ve had a misunderstanding.”
“No misunderstanding.”
“I’m sure Major Sterling’s methods can appear severe.”
“He struck a subordinate.”
“I understand you were undercover.”
“Yes.”
“And therefore not exactly presenting yourself as a colonel.”
“Rank does not determine whether assault is acceptable.”
Thorne smiled without warmth.
“Of course.”
The federal response team entered behind me.
Their leader, Special Agent Marcus Shaw, gave me a brief nod.