Chapter 2 - The Man Behind the Fence
Thirteen years earlier, I had watched Sergeant First Class Elias Voss disappear into a wall of fire.
Now he was sitting in a black SUV outside a shooting range in California, looking as comfortable as a man waiting for his morning coffee.
I blinked.
The SUV was still there.
So was Voss.
He had grown older.
His dark hair had turned silver at the temples.
A narrow scar ran from his left ear toward his jaw.
But there was no mistaking those eyes.
Pale gray.
Almost colorless.
I had seen those eyes through night-vision equipment, across briefing tables, and once through a cloud of dust while he tried to hold a door shut against an enemy assault.
I knew his face better than I knew my own.
The range officer raised his red flag.
"Competitors, prepare."
I adjusted my cheek against the stock.
Eight hundred yards separated me from the targets.
Another few hundred yards separated the targets from the security road.
I couldn't simply get up and chase the SUV.
Not while the competition was live.
Not with the rifle in my hands.
And certainly not with Crawford waiting for any excuse to disqualify me.
The range officer continued his commands.
I forced myself to breathe.
In.
Out.
Again.
The flag moved.
The first target rose.
I fired.
Steel rang in the distance.
The target dropped.
A second target appeared.
I shifted.
Fired.
Another hit.
Through the scope, I caught the movement of the SUV.
Its headlights flashed once.
Then twice.
My stomach turned.
That wasn't random.
One flash meant contact established.
Two meant acknowledgment.
It was an old field signal from a mission that officially never happened.
My finger rested outside the trigger guard while I waited for the third target.
Then the loudspeaker made a sharp popping sound.
The range lights flickered.
And every wind machine on the course suddenly accelerated.
A violent blast of air slammed into the firing positions.
Someone behind me shouted.
"What the hell?"
I didn't move.
The third target rose.
I fired.
Hit.
The fourth appeared at an unexpected angle.
I corrected and fired.
Hit.
Then the fifth target failed to rise.
I waited.
Three seconds.
Four.
Five.
The timer kept running.
I could hear the crowd growing restless.
A competitor two lanes away lifted his head.
"Target malfunction!"
The range officer didn't respond.
I kept my eye behind the scope.
Something moved behind the target berm.
Not the target.
A shadow.
A human figure.
I recognized the difference immediately.
The outline was too narrow for the steel plate.
Too irregular.
And it was moving toward the mechanism controlling my final target.
I pulled my finger completely away from the trigger.
"Cease fire!" I shouted.
My voice carried across the firing line.
The range officer hesitated.
I shouted again.
"CEASE FIRE! PERSON DOWNRANGE!"
Several shooters immediately stopped.
A Marine in Lane Nine raised his hand.
The range officer finally blew the emergency whistle.
The range fell silent.
For half a second, the only sounds were the Pacific breeze and the faint hum of the wind machines.
Then Crawford's voice exploded through the loudspeakers.
"Who called the cease-fire?"
I kept my rifle pointed safely downrange.
"Lane Twelve."
Crawford appeared beside the firing line.
"Master Sergeant Wells."
"Admiral."
"Explain yourself."
"Possible person downrange."
He looked toward the targets.
"I don't see anyone."
"Behind Target Twelve."
A safety officer raised binoculars.
Another walked toward the control station.
Crawford folded his arms.
"You stopped an entire competition because you imagined seeing somebody?"
I said nothing.
The safety officer continued scanning.
Then his expression changed.
"Movement behind the target frame."
Crawford's head turned.
The officer lifted his radio.
"Range Control, this is Safety One. Confirming unauthorized personnel in the impact area. Maintain cease-fire."
A murmur swept through the spectators.
Someone near the television platform swore.
Crawford snatched a pair of binoculars from an assistant.
He looked toward Target Twelve.
A small figure emerged from behind the berm.
It was a man wearing a gray maintenance uniform.
He carried a tool bag.
His left hand was wrapped in a bright orange cloth.
He raised both arms as security personnel approached.
The crowd stared.
Crawford slowly lowered the binoculars.
His face was unreadable.
The safety officer turned toward me.
"Good catch, Master Sergeant."
I nodded.
But I wasn't feeling victorious.
Because the man near my target had appeared at almost the exact moment Voss signaled from the SUV.
And that timing bothered me.
A lot.
Within minutes, range control evacuated the maintenance worker.
The man insisted he had been sent to repair a faulty target actuator before the competition resumed.
He said he had received the work order from an event coordinator.
The coordinator denied issuing it.
Then the paper work order disappeared.
Crawford announced that the incident had been an unfortunate misunderstanding.
He thanked the safety officers.
He praised the competition's safety procedures.
And he carefully avoided saying my name.
I didn't care.
My attention remained on the service road.
The SUV was gone.
So was Elias Voss.
At 11:42 a.m., I was sitting alone behind the equipment trailers when someone handed me a fresh cup of coffee.
"Black," Calloway said.
I looked up.
"How'd you know?"
"You seem like the kind of person who doesn't trust creamer."
I accepted the cup.
"That's surprisingly accurate."
He sat on an overturned supply crate beside me.
For a minute, neither of us spoke.
Beyond the trailers, a forklift moved pallets of equipment.
News crews were interviewing competitors about the mysterious cease-fire.
I could already imagine the headlines.
UNKNOWN VETERAN PREVENTS SHOOTING-RANGE ACCIDENT.
By the end of the afternoon, somebody would turn the maintenance worker into a heroic survivor.
Somebody else would accuse me of manufacturing the incident for publicity.
Neither version would matter.
The real question was why the man had been standing behind my target at the precise moment I was expected to fire.
Calloway took a sip of coffee.
"That guy wasn't supposed to be out there."
"No."
"Somebody sent him."
"Probably."
He looked toward the range office.
"You know who?"
I stared into my cup.
"Not yet."
Calloway leaned forward.
"I made a call."
I looked at him.
"To whom?"
"A friend at Naval Base San Diego. Works in installation safety."
"That sounds like a reasonable person to call."
"He's never heard of a maintenance crew entering an active long-range course without authorization."
"Neither have I."
"There's something else."
I waited.
"The man they brought out was carrying a valid contractor badge."
"Okay."
"The company listed on the badge doesn't have a contract here."
I looked up.
"What company?"
Calloway hesitated.
"Meridian Defense Logistics."
The coffee suddenly tasted bitter.
I placed the cup on the ground.
"Say that again."
"Meridian Defense Logistics."
I stood.
Calloway followed.
"Tara?"
"Where's the worker?"
"Security took him to the administration building."
"Who has the badge?"
"Probably the investigators."
I started walking.
Calloway caught up.
"You're going to tell me why that name matters?"
"Maybe."
"When?"
"When I know whether you're somebody I can trust."
He stopped.
I kept walking.
After several strides, I heard him call after me.
"Fair enough."
That answer made me pause.
I turned.
He stood beneath the sun with his hands at his sides.
No anger.
No wounded pride.
Just patience.
I had known men who demanded trust before doing anything to earn it.
Calloway wasn't one of them.
"Meridian used to be a different company," I said.
"What company?"
"Arclight Systems."
His expression shifted.
He knew the name.
Arclight had been one of the private defense contractors supplying communications and surveillance equipment to overseas military operations in the early 2010s.
Three years after a series of congressional inquiries, it had dissolved, sold its assets, and resurfaced through a complicated network of successor companies.
At least, that was the public story.
The private story was much uglier.
Calloway lowered his voice.
"Arclight was involved in Afghanistan."
"Yes."
"Classified communications contracts?"
I nodded.
"And something else."
"What?"
I looked toward the distant mountains.
"A rescue operation that went wrong."
Calloway didn't ask for details.
That made me trust him a little more.
I started walking again.
This time, he followed.
Rear Admiral Crawford was standing outside the administration building when we arrived.
He was speaking with Richard Vale and a civilian man in a light gray suit.
The civilian was in his late fifties, thin, with neatly combed hair and rimless glasses.
I had never seen him before.
But I recognized the lapel pin on his jacket.
A small silver compass rose.
Arclight's former executive insignia.
The original logo had been retired years ago.
Most people wouldn't have noticed it.
I did.
The man noticed me noticing.
His fingers moved briefly toward the pin.
Then he dropped his hand.
Crawford turned.
"Wells."
"Admiral."
"I understand you caused another disturbance."
"I reported a safety hazard."
"The situation has been handled."
"I'd like to speak with the investigators."
His eyes narrowed.
"About what?"
"The individual found behind my target."
"That's not your concern."
"It became my concern when he entered my firing lane."
The civilian smiled.
A thin, practiced expression.
"Perhaps this isn't the appropriate time."
I looked at him.
"And you are?"
He extended his hand.
"Charles Redding. Event sponsor."
I didn't take it.
His smile faded a fraction.
Crawford stepped between us.
"Mr. Redding represents one of our major financial partners."
"Which one?"
"That's none of your business."
I looked past Crawford.
"Meridian?"
For the first time, Redding's expression changed.
His eyes became still.
That was all.
But it was enough.
"Meridian is one of several sponsors," he said.
I nodded.
"Interesting."
Crawford folded his arms.
"You're walking a very thin line, Master Sergeant."
I looked at him.
"Then give me a clear one."
He frowned.
"What?"
"Tell me exactly which rule I've violated."
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then looked toward Vale.
Vale stared at his clipboard.
I continued.
"I arrived on time."
"I completed registration."
"I passed the equipment inspection."
"I met the first-round scoring requirements."
"And I identified an unauthorized person downrange."
I let the silence sit between us.
"So either I'm competing, or you need to document why I'm not."
Redding looked toward Crawford.
Something unspoken passed between them.
Then the civilian smiled again.
"Surely we can resolve this without making a spectacle."
I glanced toward the television cameras gathering near the building.
"Looks like we're a little late for that."
Calloway coughed into his fist.
It sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
Crawford's neck flushed.
"The next round begins at thirteen hundred hours."
"Good."
"You will be there."
"Planning on it."
"And you will follow every instruction precisely."
"Assuming those instructions don't put a civilian behind my target."
I turned and walked away before he could answer.
Calloway fell into step beside me.
"Did you enjoy that?"
"No."
"Could've fooled me."
I kept walking.
Then I asked him a question.
"How well do you know military intelligence procedures?"
He looked surprised.
"Enough to know I shouldn't pretend I know more than I do."
"Good answer."
"Why?"
I stopped beside a water station.
"Because that sponsor isn't here to watch people shoot."
Calloway glanced back toward Redding.
"What is he here for?"
I looked him straight in the eye.
"Me."
At 12:16 p.m., my phone rang again.
This time it was Mama.
I stepped behind the trailer before answering.
"Hey, sweetheart."
Her voice was thinner than it had been six weeks earlier.
But the warmth was still there.
"Hey, Mama."
"You eat breakfast?"
I smiled despite everything.
"Yes, ma'am."
"A real breakfast?"
"Eggs."
"How many?"
"Two."
"Any toast?"
"Mama."
"Don't Mama me. You always forget to eat when you're worried."
I leaned against the trailer.
I could hear a television playing somewhere in her hospital room.
A daytime talk show.
The ordinary sound hurt more than I expected.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like somebody tried to replace my insides with wet laundry."
I laughed.
She laughed too.
Then she coughed.
The coughing lasted several seconds.
I closed my eyes until it stopped.
"Are you resting?"
"Yes."
"Taking everything they give you?"
"Yes."
"Giving the nurses trouble?"
"Only the handsome ones."
I smiled.
"That's my girl."
There was a pause.
Then Mama's voice changed.
"Tara."
"Yeah?"
"You don't have to do this."
I stared across the dusty service yard.
"Do what?"
"Whatever you're doing out there."
I didn't answer.
"I saw the news."
My chest tightened.
"What news?"
"Some woman at a military shooting competition. They said she stopped an accident."
I looked toward the media trucks.
Of course.
The story was already spreading.
Mama continued.
"They showed a picture."
I waited.
"That woman looked a lot like my stubborn daughter."
I rubbed my forehead.
"Mama—"
"Baby, listen to me."
Her voice was gentle now.
"I know you want to fix this."
I felt my throat tighten.
"I can."
"You don't know that."
"I have a chance."
"So do I."
I pressed my lips together.
For years, my mother had been the strongest person in every room she entered.
Now I could hear how much effort it took her simply to finish a sentence.
She continued.
"I don't want you hurting yourself because you're afraid of losing me."
My eyes burned.
"I'm not hurting myself."
"Tara."
I said nothing.
She always knew.
Even when I was sixteen and came home with bruised knuckles after defending my younger brother from a bully.
Even when I was twenty-four and told her a deployment had been easy.
Even when I came home from Afghanistan and slept on the living room floor for three months because I couldn't stand being enclosed in a bedroom.
She always knew.
"I made you a promise," I whispered.
"I know."
"And I'm keeping it."
There was a long silence.
Then she said something I hadn't expected.
"Your father made promises like that."
I closed my eyes.
"He was a good man."
"He was."
"He never quit."
"No, baby."
Mama's voice softened.
"Sometimes I wish he'd known how."
The words stayed with me.
I didn't know what to say.
Before I could answer, she changed the subject.
"Now tell me something."
"What?"
"Are you winning?"
I looked toward the scoreboard.
"At the moment."
She laughed softly.
"Well, of course you are."
I smiled.
Then she said, "Your daddy used to say the world gets awfully quiet when a Wells woman makes up her mind."
I looked down.
"Yeah."
"Make sure you come home, sweetheart."
That sentence was harder to hear than anything else.
"I will."
"Promise?"
I swallowed.
"Promise."
We ended the call.
For several seconds, I remained motionless.
Then I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand.
I couldn't afford to fall apart.
Not today.
Not with Monday approaching.
Not with Crawford watching.
And not with Elias Voss somewhere in California.
The afternoon round began at exactly 1:00 p.m.
By then, the organizers had repaired the malfunctioning target mechanism.
The maintenance worker had been removed from the site.
And Crawford had quietly changed the round format again.
The original second-round course called for ten scored shots.
Now the competitors would fire fifteen.
Five at stationary targets.
Five at partially obscured targets.
Five at targets exposed for only a few seconds.
The rules were announced just twenty minutes before the round.
Several competitors protested.
Crawford dismissed them.
"Combat doesn't distribute advance notice."
It was a ridiculous justification.
This was a civilian-sponsored competition, not a combat operation.
But the sponsors were paying for a spectacle.
And Crawford knew exactly how to give them one.
I stood beside Lane Twelve and watched my opponents preparing.
Calloway checked his optics.
An Army captain named Rachel Monroe adjusted her shooting mat.
A former Navy special warfare operator named Benjamin Pike was discussing wind conditions with his coach.
These were capable shooters.
Experienced.
Disciplined.
Most had spent years competing under professional conditions.
They deserved a fair course.
Instead, they were being used as props in Crawford's attempt to embarrass me.
The admiral stepped onto the platform.
He lifted the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our second round will test more than basic marksmanship."
He looked toward Lane Twelve.
"It will test composure under pressure."
I ignored him.
He continued.
"Any competitor unable to complete the course under the revised rules will be eliminated."
I settled behind the rifle.
The range officer raised the flag.
Targets appeared.
Shots rang out along the firing line.
For the first several seconds, everything happened the way it should.
Then Lane Seven experienced an equipment failure.
A shooter's electronic scoring screen went dark.
He shouted for assistance.
The range officer ordered a pause for his lane.
The remaining competitors continued.
Crawford watched from the platform.
I fired through my assigned sequence.
The first five shots registered cleanly.
The next five required more patience.
The obscured targets appeared and disappeared behind movable barriers.
I waited for clear presentations.
I fired when the targets were visible.
Then came the final sequence.
Five short exposures.
One miss would remove my lead.
Two could eliminate me.
I heard Crawford's voice over a nearby speaker.
"Let's see whether our mystery shooter still has that beginner's luck."
The first target appeared.
I fired.
Hit.
Second.
Hit.
Third.
Hit.
Then the fourth target rose.
And I saw it.
A small red light.
Mounted beneath the target frame.
It flashed twice.
I froze.
The signal was unmistakable.
Two short flashes.
The same pattern from the SUV.
The same pattern we had used in Afghanistan.
I lifted my head.
The target disappeared.
The scoring timer continued.
The range officer shouted.
"Lane Twelve, engage!"
I didn't move.
The fifth target rose.
Again, the red light flashed.
Twice.
Then once.
Two-one.
In our old communications code, it meant something specific.
You are not alone.
I felt my heartbeat slow.
Whoever had installed the light knew the signal.
They knew where I would be shooting.
And they wanted me to see it.
I lowered my face to the stock.
The fifth target was still exposed.
I fired.
Steel rang.
Then the previous target rose again.
A malfunction.
Or an invitation.
I took the shot.
Another hit.
The range officer blew the whistle.
"Course complete!"
A scoring official approached with a tablet.
He looked down.
Then looked up.
"Lane Twelve. Full score."
The crowd erupted.
I barely heard them.
Across the range, the little red light went dark.
The scoreboard updated.
ROUND TWO — UNOFFICIAL LEADERBOARD
1. Tara Wells 150
2. Daniel Calloway 148
3. Rachel Monroe 146
4. Benjamin Pike 144
Crawford stared at the numbers.
His jaw tightened.
Then he leaned toward Vale.
Their conversation lasted less than ten seconds.
Vale walked to the scoring desk.
A moment later, a red notice appeared beside my name.
RESULT UNDER REVIEW.
I sat up slowly.
Calloway turned toward the scoreboard.
"You have got to be kidding me."
I didn't answer.
Because I had just seen Charles Redding approach the back of the television platform.
He was holding a phone.
He looked toward me.
Then he spoke into it.
Whatever he said caused the person on the other end to respond immediately.
Redding's expression changed.
He turned away from the cameras.
And began walking quickly toward the administration building.
I had seen that look before.
It was the look of a man receiving news he had feared for years.
A few minutes later, a military police vehicle rolled through the main entrance.
Then another.
The officers parked near the command trailer.
The first vehicle's passenger door opened.
A woman stepped out.
She wore civilian clothes.
Dark trousers.
A navy jacket.
Short brown hair.
She carried a slim leather folder.
For a moment, she looked toward the crowd.
Then her eyes found mine.
I knew her too.
Colonel Sarah Whitcomb.
Former Army intelligence.
One of only four people who knew what had actually happened during Operation Fallen Angel.
She had testified at a closed hearing after the mission.
Then she had disappeared from my life.
I had written her three letters over the years.
She had answered none of them.
Now she was standing at the edge of a shooting range, staring straight at me.
Crawford intercepted her before she reached the competitors.
He spoke sharply.
She didn't stop walking.
He placed himself in her path.
She opened her folder.
Whatever she showed him made him step aside.
Then she approached me.
I stood.
For thirteen years, I had imagined what I might say if we ever met again.
I had rehearsed accusations.
Questions.
Entire conversations.
But when she stopped in front of me, none of them came.
She looked at my face.
Then at the old rifle case.
"Tara."
"Colonel."
"I'm sorry."
Two words.
I didn't know whether they referred to the past or the present.
Probably both.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
She glanced over her shoulder.
Crawford was watching.
So was Redding.
Whitcomb lowered her voice.
"We have a problem."
"That's not exactly news."
"Elias Voss is alive."
I felt my stomach drop.
"I saw him."
Her face changed.
"Where?"
"Outside the eastern fence."
"When?"
"This morning."
She closed her eyes briefly.
"Then we're running out of time."
I stepped closer.
"Running out of time for what?"
She glanced toward the television cameras.
Then she spoke so quietly I nearly missed it.
"Voss wasn't the man who betrayed your team."
My mouth went dry.
"What?"
"He was trying to warn them."
I stared at her.
For thirteen years, every official document I had been allowed to see had identified Elias Voss as the suspected source of compromised communications.
His unexplained disappearance had been treated as circumstantial evidence of betrayal.
The Army had never publicly accused him.
But inside the classified investigation, the implication was unmistakable.
Voss had sold us out.
Now Whitcomb was telling me otherwise.
"Who betrayed us?" I whispered.
She looked toward the command platform.
Toward Crawford.
Then back at me.
"We think we know."
Before I could speak, her phone vibrated.
She looked at the screen.
Her entire expression changed.
"What is it?" I asked.
She turned the phone so I could see.
It was a photograph.
Taken less than ten minutes earlier.
My mother was sitting in her hospital bed in Georgia.
She was smiling politely.
Beside her stood a man wearing a white coat.
He had one hand resting on the rail of her bed.
His face was turned slightly toward the camera.
But I recognized him immediately.
Charles Redding.
The same man who had been standing beside Crawford just minutes earlier.
Except that was impossible.
Redding was in California.
My mother was in Georgia.
Whitcomb looked at me.
"The photograph came from a number we can't identify."
My skin went cold.
Below the picture was a single message.
ANGEL, FINISH THE COMPETITION OR YOUR MOTHER NEVER MAKES IT TO THURSDAY.
And beneath it were three words.
WE REMEMBER FALCON.
Falcon.
General Nathaniel Mercer's old call sign.
The name of a dead man.
A man who had apparently been giving orders.
And suddenly, I understood something that changed the entire meaning of the championship.
May you like
The three hundred thousand dollars had brought me to Coronado.
But somebody had been waiting for me long before I registered.
