BEYOND THE RED LINE: THE ADMIRAL'S SEALED ORDERS

The subterranean corridors beneath Naval Amphibious Base Coronado were built during the Cold War—damp, concrete tunnels lined with thick bundles of insulated fiber-optic cables, steam pipes, and reinforced blast doors designed to withstand an indirect nuclear strike.

I moved with my back pressed against the moist concrete wall, my pistol raised at high-ready. Every step was agony on my left side, where the broken rib grated against cartilage, but I kept my breathing rhythm locked into four-second intervals.

Four in. Hold two. Six out.

"They cut the primary fiber relays," Bennett whispered behind me, checking our rear flank. "The base is blind to the outside world."

"They don't want the Pentagon seeing the ship leave the pier," I murmured. "Look at the floor."

Fresh mud and salt water dripped along the concrete, heading directly toward Server Vault Charlie. Beside the footprints was the distinctive dragged heel of a combat boot—the left foot turning outward at a seven-degree angle.

Reed.

I held up a closed fist, signaling Bennett to halt.

Ahead, the heavy vault door hung open by six inches. The electronic keypad had been destroyed by a 12-gauge slug, leaving exposed wires sparking against the steel frame. Inside, the blue glow of server racks cast rhythmic pulses of light across the damp floor.

I peeked through the hinge gap.

Reed was standing inside, his back to the door. He had discarded his dress uniform for black tactical fatigues, a plate carrier strapped over his massive chest. He was violently ripping solid-state hard drives out of the primary server chassis, tossing them into a heavy waterproof duffel bag.

"You're sloppy, Walker," I said loudly, stepping directly into the open doorway with my weapon trained on center mass.

Reed didn't jump. He slowly placed another hard drive into the bag, zipped it closed, and turned around with an easy, chilling grin.

"I wondered if you'd make it down here, Commander," he drawled, his hands resting lightly on his belt near his holstered sidearm. "You know, that punch in the mess hall? I held back. I didn't want to kill you before I figured out how much you knew."

"You should have hit harder," I said. "Because now you're dying in this basement."

Reed chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that echoed off the metal server racks. "Look around you, Vance. The base is on lockdown. Captain Sterling controls the harbor patrol. In ten minutes, the Valkyrie clears the channel and hits international waters. By tomorrow morning, every record of our unit's existence is erased, and you're just another casualty of a tragic training accident."

"And what happens to the twenty-two Navy engineers you locked in the cargo hold of that freighter, Reed?" I asked, taking half a step forward. "Do they get a share of the offshore money, or do they end up like Lieutenant Miller?"

Reed’s eyes narrowed. "Miller was weak. He thought he could write a letter to the Inspector General and walk away. Nobody walks away from fifty million dollars."

"Thank you," I said softly.

Reed blinked. "For what?"

I tapped the tactical microphone clipped to my collar. "For the sworn confession recorded on the secure flight recorder Bennett carries on his tactical rig. Hardwired directly to the satellite uplink on the roof."

Reed’s face morphed into pure rage. His right shoulder dropped—the exact tell I had warned him about in the mess hall—as his hand blurred toward his holster.

I didn't wait for his gun to clear leather.

I fired twice into his right shoulder, severing the deltoid tendon and blowing his weapon out of his grip. Reed roared in pain, staggering back against the server rack as sparks showered over his shoulders.

"Move!" Bennett yelled from the doorway. "Red laser on the catwalk!"

A high-caliber sniper round tore through the steel doorframe where my head had been a fraction of a second earlier. Sterling had snipers covering the escape corridor from the elevated ventilation catwalks.