Chapter 4 - THE TRAITOR WHO CAME BACK CRYINGFour months after my supposed death, the man who shot me walked into a parking garage in Arlington, Virginia, and asked a stranger to kill him.
I watched the entire thing from a security camera.
Daniel Reed looked nothing like the teammate I'd known.
His beard was untrimmed.
His face was hollow.
His right hand shook around a cigarette he never lit.
He stood beside a concrete pillar, staring at a black sedan.
Inside the sedan sat an investigator working with Brooks.
Daniel approached the driver's window.
"Are you the man who contacted me?"
The investigator nodded.
Daniel glanced around.
"You said you knew about Morgan."
"We know she didn't die the way your command reported."
Daniel closed his eyes.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he whispered, "I wish he'd just finished me off instead."
The investigator remained silent.
Daniel pressed his palms against the window.
"I can't sleep. I can't eat. Every time I close my eyes, I see her looking at me."
His voice broke.
"She trusted me."
I watched from a safe apartment thousands of miles away.
My injured shoulder began throbbing.
It always did when I was angry.
Daniel continued.
"She saved my life twice. Once in training. Once during a deployment."
He wiped his face.
"And I shot her in the back."
The investigator leaned forward.
"Who gave the order?"
Daniel glanced toward the garage entrance.
"Voss."
"Can you prove it?"
Daniel laughed bitterly.
"He doesn't leave proof. That's why he keeps winning."
The investigator said, "Then help us stop him."
Daniel stared.
"You don't understand. He knows where my daughter goes to school."
I went cold.
Daniel had a seven-year-old daughter named Emma.
She used to send drawings to our team.
I remembered one particularly terrible drawing of a helicopter with eight windows and pink wings.
Daniel had kept it inside his vest.
Now his daughter was being used to control him.
"What did Voss threaten?" the investigator asked.
Daniel's mouth trembled.
"He told me that accidents happen to families who forget their obligations."
"Did he threaten your wife?"
Daniel nodded.
"And Emma."
The investigator paused.
"Then you need protection."
Daniel shook his head.
"There isn't protection from people like him."
He reached into his jacket.
The investigator stiffened.
But Daniel didn't pull a gun.
He withdrew a folded letter.
"Give this to whoever's investigating."
"What's in it?"
"My confession."
The investigator accepted it.
Daniel stepped backward.
Then he asked the question that made my breath catch.
"Did they ever find her body?"
The investigator chose his words carefully.
"No confirmed remains were recovered."
Daniel looked toward the ceiling.
For one fragile second, hope crossed his face.
"Then maybe..."
He couldn't finish.
The investigator asked, "Maybe what?"
Daniel swallowed.
"Maybe God didn't let me finish the job."
I replayed the recording three times.
On the fourth viewing, Brooks closed the laptop.
"Enough."
I glared at him.
"Open it."
"Alex."
"Open it."
He pulled the computer away.
"Watching him suffer won't change what happened."
I stood so quickly that the chair scraped across the floor.
"He shot me."
"I know."
"He looked me in the eyes and pulled the trigger."
"I know."
"He heard Voss order him to finish me, and he would have done it."
Brooks didn't answer.
I felt heat rising behind my eyes.
"Don't ask me to feel sorry for him because he's having nightmares."
"I'm not."
"Then why did you bring me this?"
Brooks slowly opened the brown confession letter.
"Because Daniel Reed might be the only witness alive who can put Voss behind bars."
I turned away.
Outside the apartment window, rain blurred the city.
For months, my life had been reduced to hiding places.
Fake names.
Burner phones.
Medical appointments under someone else's identity.
I could no longer enter an American embassy without risking exposure.
I couldn't call my mother.
Couldn't visit Rebecca's grave without armed protection.
Couldn't even look in the mirror without seeing the thick scar that reminded me how quickly trust could become betrayal.
And now the man responsible was asking for mercy.
"Read it," Brooks said.
I didn't turn around.
He began anyway.
"'My name is Chief Petty Officer Daniel Reed. On the night Lieutenant Commander Alexandra Morgan was reported killed, I knowingly obeyed an unlawful order to shoot her.'"
I closed my eyes.
Brooks continued.
"'Commander Richard Voss told me that Morgan had compromised the operation and was about to endanger American personnel. I was instructed to eliminate her and report her death as the result of hostile action.'"
His voice lowered.
"'I understood that I was shooting an unarmed teammate who posed no immediate threat. No explanation can excuse what I did.'"
I leaned against the window.
Brooks turned the page.
"'Afterward, I was ordered to falsify the mission report. Commander Voss directed me to state that Morgan had advanced into enemy fire while protecting another member of the team.'"
My throat tightened.
"'I signed the report. I accepted the commendation. I watched her mother bury an empty coffin.'"
Brooks paused.
Then he read the final paragraph.
"'I am prepared to testify under oath. I understand that I may spend the rest of my life in prison. I ask only that my wife and daughter be protected from the man who ordered me to commit murder.'"
Silence filled the room.
I stared at the rain.
For a long time, I said nothing.
Then I asked, "Did he mention Rebecca?"
Brooks flipped through the pages.
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"He confirms she was unarmed and that Voss ordered her killed."
"Anything else?"
Brooks hesitated.
"Alex, there's something you need to see."
He placed a photograph on the table.
It showed Daniel and Commander Voss outside a hangar.
The timestamp was three days before my mission.
Voss was handing Daniel a sealed envelope.
"What's that?" I asked.
"According to Daniel, it contained a photograph of you and a revised operational plan."
I stared at the picture.
Brooks continued.
"The plan included an order to kill you if you interfered."
"Three days before?"
He nodded.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
That meant the encounter with Rebecca hadn't been a surprise.
They knew she was there.
They knew I might refuse.
They had prepared Daniel before the mission began.
Brooks handed me another sheet.
"It gets worse."
At the top was a copy of my medical records.
My surgical history.
Allergies.
Blood type.
Emergency contact.
Someone had attached those records to the contingency plan.
"Why would Voss need my medical file?" I whispered.
Brooks looked at me grimly.
"To make sure the body they recovered could be identified as yours."
I stared at him.
"What body?"
He said nothing.
A terrible thought formed.
"Brooks."
He looked away.
"What body did they bury?"
The investigation led us to a forensic specialist named Dr. Elaine Porter.
She had been working at the overseas military mortuary when my supposed remains arrived.
According to the official record, the body was too badly damaged for visual identification.
DNA identification had supposedly confirmed my identity.
But the DNA report had no laboratory tracking number.
And the listed technician had left military service six years before the date of the report.
Dr. Porter agreed to speak with Brooks only after an independent federal investigator provided legal protections.
The interview took place in a secure conference room.
I participated remotely with my face concealed.
Dr. Porter was a thin woman in her early forties.
Her hands trembled as she opened a folder.
"I knew something was wrong," she said.
Brooks leaned forward.
"Explain."
"The remains were delivered in a sealed transport container. There was no standard recovery documentation. No photographs from the original scene."
"Who signed the transfer?"
"Major Peter Kline."
My stomach tightened.
Of course.
Brooks asked, "What made you suspicious?"
Dr. Porter swallowed.
"The skeletal characteristics were inconsistent with Lieutenant Commander Morgan's medical records."
I gripped the edge of the table.
"Meaning?"
Dr. Porter looked directly at the camera.
"The remains were male."
I stopped breathing.
A man had been buried under my name.
A man whose family might never know what happened to him.
Brooks asked, "Did you report the discrepancy?"
"Immediately."
"To whom?"
"Rear Admiral Whitaker's office."
I felt sick.
"And what happened?"
"I received a written order removing me from the case."
She opened her folder.
"Two days later, a replacement report appeared. It identified the remains as Lieutenant Commander Morgan."
Brooks leaned closer.
"Who signed that report?"
Dr. Porter looked down.
"The signature was mine."
"But you didn't sign it?"
"No."
Her voice broke.
"Someone forged my signature."
I covered my mouth.
Dr. Porter continued.
"I reported the forgery to my supervisor. Three hours later, my security clearance was suspended. Within a week, I was reassigned."
"Why didn't you go public?"
She began crying.
"Because they threatened to charge me with mishandling classified material. They said I could lose my license. My pension. Everything."
Brooks said, "Would you testify?"
She looked at him.
Then toward the camera.
"Is Lieutenant Commander Morgan alive?"
The room went silent.
I had kept my camera pointed toward the wall.
My voice came through altered audio.
"Why do you ask?"
Dr. Porter leaned forward.
"Because if she is, I need her to know something."
I felt a chill.
"What?"
"The man they buried under her name wasn't a stranger."
Brooks exchanged a glance with me.
Dr. Porter opened another folder.
Inside was a photograph of a young man in civilian clothes.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
A slight smile.
"He was an American contractor," she whispered.
"His name was Michael Price."
The surname struck me instantly.
Price.
Hannah Price.
Dr. Porter looked directly into the camera.
"Michael was Hannah Price's husband."
I felt my stomach drop.
The one woman Rebecca said possessed the original evidence had already lost her husband.
And someone had used his body to fake my death.
I had thought Voss's conspiracy began with Rebecca.
Now I understood it had started much earlier.
With a murdered contractor.
A grieving wife.
And an empty coffin.
That night, I sat on the apartment floor with Michael Price's photograph in front of me.
He was thirty-seven.
He had served eight years in the Army before leaving active duty.
He and Hannah had been married for eleven years.
They had one child.
A little boy named Jacob.
Four years old.
The records said Michael died in an aviation accident.
His body had supposedly never been recovered.
Now we knew why.
I looked at Brooks.
"We need Hannah."
He nodded.
"I agree."
"Then find her."
"We've been trying."
"What do you mean?"
His expression darkened.
"Hannah Price disappeared two months ago."
I stared.
"Disappeared?"
"Her apartment was empty. Her accounts were frozen. Her phone was disconnected."
I stood.
"Someone took her."
"Possibly."
"No. Voss found out she had evidence."
Brooks raised a hand.
"Alex, we don't know that."
I looked at Michael's photograph.
Then at the picture of his son.
"We know enough."
The next morning, our investigator found Hannah's car abandoned outside a storage facility in Maryland.
The driver's window was broken.
Blood stained the front seat.
And taped beneath the steering wheel was a handwritten note.
Four words.
MORGAN IS NOT DEAD.
Someone had written them in Hannah Price's handwriting.
The note included an address.
May you like
And one instruction.
COME ALONE.
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