Chapter 3 - Infiltrating the Den of Vipers
The perimeter fence of FOB Chapman had always looked formidable to outsiders, but to someone who had spent two years designing its blind spots and security patrols, it was nothing more than a rusted cheesecloth.
It was midnight when I cut through the concertina wire behind the motor pool, moving with the silent, fluid grace of a shadow. My ribs still ached with every breath, and my strapped knee burned like fire, but adrenaline and tactical fury are the best painkillers known to mankind.
My target wasn't Major Harrison’s office yet. That could wait.
My first objective was the Delta team’s private quarters in the reinforced container bunkers on the eastern edge of the base.
I slipped through the heavy steel door of Rourke’s barracks room like a ghost passing through a wall. The room smelled of gun oil, expensive bourbon, and laundry detergent. Rourke’s tactical vest hung over the back of a metal chair, his personal encrypted laptop resting open on the small wooden desk.
Fortune favors the arrogant.
I bypassed the login screen using a simple hardware bypass tool I carried in my pocket, plugging my encrypted thumb drive directly into his USB port. The download progress bar flashed green across the screen as massive encrypted financial ledgers, operational transcripts, and communication logs began flooding into my drive.
Suddenly, the door handle clicked.
Footsteps echoed in the narrow hallway. Heavy, confident boots.
I didn't panic. I slipped into the narrow gap behind the camouflage-printed locker, drawing my combat knife, my muscles coiling like a struck spring.
The door swung open, and Cole Rourke walked in, unbuttoning his tactical shirt, tossing his cap onto the bed. He looked tired, rubbing the back of his neck as he muttered something under his breath about supply manifests.
He walked straight toward the desk, reached for his laptop, and stopped dead.
His eyes scanned the screen. The progress bar was at ninety-eight percent.
Rourke’s hand dropped instantly toward his sidearm holster, his head snapping up as he scanned the room. "Who's—"
I didn't give him time to finish the sentence.
I stepped out from behind the locker, closed the distance in two silent strides, and brought the heavy steel pommel of my knife down hard across the side of his temple.
Rourke dropped like a felled oak tree, unconscious before his body even hit the linoleum floor.
I caught him by the collar, dragging his heavy frame across the room and dumping him unceremoniously into his own metal locker, slamming the door shut and securing it with a heavy padlock. I unplugged my thumb drive, pocketed it safely, and turned toward the door just as the download finished uploading backup copies directly to Miller’s safe house in Bagram.
The truth was finally in my hands.
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And the names written inside those financial ledgers weren't just rogue mercenaries or corrupt contractors.
They led all the way to the top of the coalition command chain—and right to the desk of Major Harrison.
