Chapter 2 - The Agent in the Overcoat
Route 9 Storage sat tucked away behind a sprawling row of noisy auto-repair shops, roughly twenty-فive minutes north of the cemetery. By the time my tires crunched across the gravel parking lot, heavy, bruised clouds had swallowed the last vestiges of daylight, plunging the desolate facility into premature gloom.
The complex consisted of roughly sixty metal storage units arranged in four long, monotonous rows behind a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. A single flickering halogen light illuminated the small tin-roofed office near the entrance.
Standing beneath the awning, entirely unbothered by the chilly drizzle that had begun to fall, was a woman.
She wore a tailored black overcoat, her dark hair pulled back into a severe, utilitarian bun. She held no umbrella, and her hands rested calmly inside her pockets. From the exact moment my headlights swept across the lot, her eyes were locked onto my SUV.
I cut the engine, sat in the silence for a heartbeat, and checked my side mirrors. Old military caution. No tail. No suspicious vehicles idling by the gate.
I pushed the door open, stepped out into the cold drizzle, and walked toward her, keeping my stride balanced and ready. As I approached, I noticed the sharp, assessing intelligence in her dark eyes. She wasn't intimidated by my Army uniform; she looked like someone who spent her life dealing with people far more dangerous than a grieving colonel.
“Colonel Mercer?” she asked, her voice calm, measured, and entirely free of hesitation.
I stopped three feet away, crossing my arms defensively against the chill. “That depends entirely on who’s asking.”
She didn't blink. With slow, deliberate movements—telegraphing every gesture so I wouldn't misinterpret a twitch—she reached inside her heavy overcoat and flipped open a black leather leather folder.
A gold shield gleamed in the dim halogen light. Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“Special Agent Rebecca Shaw,” she introduced herself, snapping the badge shut. “And before you ask, your father knew you’d come alone, Colonel. He wrote the protocol we’re currently following.”
I stared at her credentials, my mind racing through possibilities. The FBI. Not local law enforcement. Not military police. Federal intelligence.
“What is inside Unit Seventeen?” I demanded, gripping the brass key tightly in my coat pocket where my fingers could feel its cold edges.
May you like
Agent Shaw’s face hardened, the professional warmth draining away to reveal absolute steel.
“Answers, Colonel,” she said quietly. “And a truth your father spent the last two decades hiding from every single person on this earth—including you.”
