The young Marine slammed his shoulder forward before I had time to turn. My boots skidded across the greasy tile, and my back hit the stainless-steel counter.

The aftermath of an institutional explosion is never quiet; it sounds like shredders running at midnight, phones ringing off their hooks, and the dry squeak of government-issue shoes on linoleum as investigators move from office to office with boxes of red tape.

By fourteen-hundred hours, the 5th Marine Regiment’s headquarters had been converted into an operational command post for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

I sat in what had been Colonel Bradley Briggs’s office, my dress blues hung neatly in the wardrobe, replaced once more by my faded MARPAT utility trousers and a clean black undershirt. My rank was pinned to my collar—two subdued black stars that didn't catch the light.

Bruno lay on the wool rug beneath the desk, chewing contentedly on a large marrow bone that Doc Miller had brought over from the commissary. The royal blue cast on his leg was signed in silver Sharpie: *“To Bruno—Semper Fi, Denise A.”* and *“Best point man in the Corps—Hayes.”*

The door opened, and Lieutenant Commander Lin entered, carrying a stack of green-tinted inventory ledgers.

"General," she said, setting the papers on the desk. "The preliminary audit of the Range 214 armory is complete. We recovered twenty-eight thousand rounds of the missing ammunition from a false-bottom trailer parked behind Corporal Mercer’s off-base rental house in Oceanside."

"And the remaining seven thousand?" I asked.

Lin hesitated, her eyes flickering toward the open blinds that looked out over the parade deck. "That’s why I’m here, ma'am. Tyler Mercer started talking the second his civilian lawyers realized they were facing federal conspiracy indictments. He’s terrified of Leavenworth. He gave up the contact for the transport driver who was supposed to pick up the final crate of optics tonight."

"Who is the driver?"

"A civilian contractor named Marcus Vance," Lin said. "No relation to your operational alias, ma'am. He’s an ex-contractor who was bounced from Blackwater in twenty-ten for weapons diversion. He’s currently running an illicit logistics staging area out of an abandoned live-fire observation bunker at Range Two-Fourteen."

I leaned back in Briggs’s leather chair, my eyes narrowing. "Range Two-Fourteen is five miles inside the impact area. It’s surrounded by unexploded ordnance."

"Which is why nobody ever goes out there," Lin said. "Mercer told us Vance has four armed men with him. They’re not just moving optics, General. They have three crates of high-explosive 40mm grenades that were logged as 'destroyed during demolition training' by Mercer’s company armory three months ago."

The phone on the desk rang. A single, harsh chirp.

I reached out and hit the speaker button. "Callahan."

*"Victoria, it’s Hayes,"* the Sergeant Major’s voice rasped through the small speaker. *"We have a problem."*

"Report, Raymond."

*"Denise Alvarez didn't go home after the hearing. Her supervisor told her she had to clear her personal effects from the galley locker before she took her emergency leave. She went into the rear supply corridor twenty minutes ago. Her car is still in the lot, her cell phone is on the counter in the mess hall, and the delivery van from Vance’s contracting firm was seen leaving the rear gate at thirteen-forty-five."*

Something ancient and cold ignited behind my ribs.

"Did they take her?" I asked, my voice dropping into that terrifying, flat register.

*"Vance isn't stupid,"* Hayes growled. *"He knows Mercer got picked up. He knows the net is closing. He took Denise as insurance to make sure he gets his trucks through the San Onofre checkpoint tonight."*

I looked down at Bruno.

The dog had stopped chewing his bone. His head was up, his ears rotated forward, his dark amber eyes locked onto mine. He didn't know the words *tactical situation*, but he knew the tone of my voice. He knew the smell of adrenaline that was beginning to seep through my skin.

"Raymond," I said into the phone.

*"Standing by, General."*

"Get my field kit from the transit room. Have Doc Miller bring Bruno’s tactical support sling and the all-terrain tracking harness."

Lin stepped forward, her face pale. "General, you can't go into the impact area yourself. Protocol requires us to wait for the Special Reaction Team from the Provost Marshal’s office. They’re assembling now—"

"The SRT will take forty-five minutes to stage their vehicles and another thirty to clear the range safety officer," I said, rising from the desk and reaching for my boots. "Denise Alvarez stood up for my dog when three hundred Marines looked at their trays. I am not leaving her in an impact bunker with four black-market arms dealers while some lieutenant reviews a safety checklist."

"General—"

"Commander Lin, you have your orders," I said, locking my eyes onto hers. "Notify the range tower that Range Two-Fourteen is now an active combat zone. Anyone between here and that bunker who isn't wearing a United States Marine Corps uniform is an enemy combatant."

Bruno stood up, his three good legs bracing against the carpet, his chest expanding with a low, deep breath.

The blue cast didn't matter. The broken bone didn't matter.