Chapter 4 - A Different Kind of Uniform
Keller tossed a plain manila folder onto the table. It slid across the metal and came to a stop against my knuckles.
“What is this?” I asked.
“An unofficial directive from OSI Command,” Keller said, leaning against the doorframe. “Officially, you are grounded, under investigation, and restricted to the Delaware military reservation pending a full security review. Unofficially? We need to know what Greg Vance is buying with four hundred thousand dollars of foreign capital, and we need to know who told him how to exploit your family dynamics to do it.”
I opened the folder. Inside were printouts of property deeds, LLC registrations, and a series of high-resolution photographs taken outside a private aviation hangar at New Castle Airport.
One photo showed Greg standing next to a sleek, privately chartered Gulfstream that definitely didn’t belong to a struggling commercial real estate agent. Another showed him shaking hands with a man whose face had been flagged in three different European intelligence databases as a procurement broker for restricted aerospace components.
“He’s selling logistics data,” I whispered, looking up at Keller. “Every time my squadron runs a mobilization route through Ramstein or Mildenhall, the timing, the tonnage, the manifest weights—it’s all classified, but it’s accessible if you have a sympathetic flight crew or someone willing to look the other way on cargo tags.”
“And if you have an active-duty pilot whose family can be weaponized against her,” Keller added. “Your sister didn’t just happen to lose her temper today, Lieutenant. Greg spent the last eight months engineering this. He funded her influencer lifestyle, paid off her boutique debts, and coached her on how to push every single button you have until you snapped and left your credential within arm’s reach.”
The realization hit me like a physical blow.
Britney wasn't the mastermind. She was a pawn. A very expensive, very arrogant, deeply narcissistic pawn who genuinely believed the world revolved around her wedding, while the man she loved was using her as a human crowbar to pry open a military supply line.
“She has no idea,” I said softly.
“None,” Keller agreed. “To her, Greg is just a successful, patient fiancé who puts up with her family. If you walk in there and tell her that her dream wedding is being funded by foreign intelligence brokers using her as a saboteur, she’ll probably accuse you of trying to steal her thunder again.”
“Then I won't tell her,” I said.
Donovan frowned, leaning forward. “What are you planning, Morgan?”
“Greg thinks he won,” I said, closing the folder and sliding it into my tactical jacket. “He thinks I’m sidelined at an interrogation table, Britney is crying in Mom’s kitchen, and his payload is halfway across the Atlantic on a C-17 flown by a pilot who doesn't check the seals on the secondary containers.”
I looked at Keller.
“You want to know who’s backing him? Let me go home.”
“That violates every protocol in the book,” Vance warned. “You’re an active subject in a security compromise investigation.”
“I’m also the only person on this base who can walk into my mother’s house without Greg’s contacts getting spooked,” I replied, my voice steady. “Give me a wire, give me a surveillance detail on the perimeter, and let me play the disgraced, grounded pilot who just wants her family back.”
Keller stared at me for a long, silent moment. A slow, thin smile touched the corner of his mouth.
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“You’ve got four hours before command issues a public statement about your suspension,” Keller said. “Make it count.”
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