Chapter 3 - Three Short Barks
I was out of my chair before the guard reached the door.
"That's an alert," I said. "Not aggression."
"Sit down."
"Three short, one long. He only does that when he finds a person in distress."
Rourke returned at a run. "The kennel technician collapsed in the equipment room. They think it's heat exhaustion."
I looked at Sloane. "In an air-conditioned building?"
A second bark rolled down the hall. This time it ended in a frightened yelp. I pushed past the guard. Rourke could have stopped me. Instead he moved aside.
Outside, a young man lay on the kennel walkway, gasping. His name patch read ORTEGA. A sharp chemical smell drifted from an open storage room. Atlas, tethered to a steel post, faced the doorway with his body low and rigid.
"Don't go in there," I said. "Get everybody back."
The nearest MP turned to me as if I were the problem, but Rourke shouted, "Clear the building. Now!"
An emergency crew arrived. Ortega was carried toward an ambulance, breathing through an oxygen mask. He caught my sleeve as the stretcher rolled past.
"They said the old gear was gone," he rasped.
"Who did?"
"The colonel's people. But I found it. I was going to call you."
He slipped a brass key into my palm, then coughed so hard the medic pushed me away.
Sloane appeared at the doorway, taking in the open storage room and the key disappearing into my fist. "Nobody touches that equipment until safety clears it," he ordered.
But he was already telling a uniformed contractor to load two sealed bins onto a truck.
"Evidence preservation," the contractor told Rourke.
I pointed to the bins. "Or evidence removal?"
Sloane turned on me. "One more accusation and you leave in handcuffs."
"You keep promising that."
Rourke guided me toward the yard. His voice dropped. "Did Ortega say what he found?"
I opened my hand. The key was stamped B-17.
"A place you can pretend doesn't exist," I said.
He glanced at the truck moving through the gate. "That contractor isn't on today's movement roster."
"Then stop him."
Rourke reached for his radio. An answer came before he finished speaking: the truck had been authorized by the commander's office.
We watched it disappear beyond the fence. Beside us, Atlas pulled against his leash until it cut into his neck. His eyes followed the truck.
"He knows," I said.
Rourke turned the brass key over. "B-17 isn't a storage locker."
"What is it?"
"A secure cage inside the former explosives lab. It's been locked since Kharif Pass."
May you like
He looked straight at me.
"And the access log says you opened it yesterday."
