Thomas turned whiter than salt. He tried to look away, but Rachel took another step, trapping him against the lockers with her presence alone.
For two years, the Army thought it was an engineering flaw, Rachel continued, each word falling like an iron weight. Until DoD Inspector General investigators pulled the metallurgical analysis on the sheared mounting bolts. The contractor was supposed to provide Grade 8 titanium-alloy hardened fasteners manufactured by a certified foundry in Ohio. Instead, someone set up a shell logistics firm right here in Liberty Falls, Pennsylvania. Turner Precision Logistics.
No, Thomas choked out, shaking his head frantically. No, that wasn’t me! That was a supply distributor out of Philadelphia! I just managed the regional warehouse!
You bought scrap-grade, Chinese-milled structural steel bolts for four dollars a crate, stamped them with counterfeit military defense certs, and billed the Pentagon seven hundred dollars per unit, Agent Cole stated, stepping up beside Rachel. You pocketed four point two million dollars over a three-year period, Thomas. You used that money to build your auto dealership empire, buy your brother’s sheriff campaign, and fund this school’s multi-million-dollar athletic stadium.
Cole looked around the athletic wing, his expression thick with cold disgust.
You paved this school with the blood of American soldiers, Thomas. And you thought that if you kept everybody in this valley paid off and terrified, nobody would ever look behind the curtain.
Thomas’s knees buckled. He slid down the blue locker front until he was sitting on the floor, his designer coat bunching in the dirt, his expensive leather loafers dragging through the dust. He looked like an empty suit, a hollow shell of a man whose gilded empire had just vanished in the span of five minutes.
How… how did you find out? Thomas whispered, staring up at Rachel with glazed, uncomprehending eyes. How did you know I was here?
Rachel looked down at him with an expression of pure, icy detachment.
I am Rachel Morgan, Thomas. But before I was Rachel Morgan, history teacher, I was Staff Sergeant Rachel Vance.
Thomas’s head snapped up, his eyes widening in complete, catastrophic realization.
Vance? Thomas breathed. Coach Vince Vance… is your—
My estranged brother, Rachel said quietly. The man who set up your shipping manifests at the rail depot before he became the beloved head football coach of Liberty Falls. The man who thought he could hide behind high school championships and booster club banquets.
Suddenly, the two-way tactical radio clipped to Agent Cole’s shoulder squawked with violent static.
Command, this is Team Two! an urgent, breathless voice crackled through the speaker. We have a breach at the stadium fieldhouse! Coach Vance is not in the office! The security cage for the athletic department maintenance vehicle is wide open! He took the heavy diesel flatbed!
Cole grabbed his mic. What direction, Team Two?
He just smashed through the south access gates! the radio screamed over the sound of high-revving diesel engines and tearing chain-link fence. He’s heading for the state highway with four 55-gallon chemical drums on the back! He’s running for the ridge!
Rachel’s eyes widened.
The ridge, Rachel said, her voice dropping into pure, sudden alarm. The old strip-mining quarry behind the state forest.
Cole looked at her. What’s up there?
The cold October rain had turned into a driving sleet by the time the heavy double fire doors of Liberty Falls High School burst outward into the autumn darkness.
Rachel Morgan sprinted down the concrete steps, the icy slush soaking through her stockings and dress shoes without registering in her consciousness. The bitter wind off the Appalachian ridgeline whipped her loose hair across her face, stinging her eyes, but her vision remained laser-locked on the churning tire tracks cut deep into the athletic field’s sod.
To the south, beyond the torn chain-link perimeter fence, the twin red taillights of an industrial Ford F-550 flatbed truck vanished around the sharp, climbing curve of State Route 402.
Rachel! Agent Nathan Cole roared behind her, his tactical boots hammering down the wet stairs. Hold up! We have regional state police intercept units staging on the southern bypass! Let the cruisers box him in!
