badge manager’s office. “Do you have the information I called about?” he demanded of the woman behind the desk.
The manager looked up at Trace with concern. “You really want Leona Yates’s records included? Do you realize the ramifications of your request when she hears about it?”
“I have my reasons, and I also have the authority to demand any person’s records on this base. Isn’t that correct?”
The woman stiffened. “Yes, sir.”
“Then do your job and get the information for me. Now.”
Obviously troubled, she raced out of the office.
Tension clawed at Trace’s neck and back like a beast tearing at flesh. Every move he made now could very well destroy the company...or his own career, if his suspicions were wrong.
He didn’t think they were. He just hoped.
Within a minute, the woman thrust a stack of papers into his hand. “That’s everyone’s movements for the day. I hope you know what you’re doing, sir.”
Trace didn’t answer. He just walked into the hallway, already searching the data for Leona Yates’s identification and recorded movements. She’d come in, but she’d never left the facility. So where in the hell was she?
He checked her office again. Not there, and she didn’t answer her phone or her page.
As he disconnected, the lab called.
“Padgett here. What did you find?”
“Initial tests show there’s a ninety percent probability the blood from Mahew’s room belongs to Leona Yates. I’ll know more later.”
Damn.
Trace put the phone in his pocket, his tension ratcheting up higher. The prisoner had been restrained so he couldn’t fight back. Mahew wouldn’t have drawn blood. So who did?
His stomach roiled.
He admired Leona. He had the entire time he’d worked for her. He didn’t want to think she was involved in these events, but he’d discovered too many inconsistencies in her behavior, and the Caribbean bank accounts he’d just discovered had sealed the deal that something wasn’t on the level.
Still, she was a brilliant operative. She wouldn’t voluntarily leave her blood at a crime scene. He needed proof of her guilt—or innocence—fast.
He strode into the internal surveillance room and shut the door to the monitor-lined room. The private manning the booth looked at the closed door warily.
“Pull up the last three hours on camera fifteen,” Trace snapped. “Play them on fast forward until I say stop.”
“Yes, sir.” The kid nearly passed out as he fumbled to follow orders.
Finally, the tech located the right view. The crisp images zipped by on the screen.
“Stop.” Trace reeled at the images. Leona had gone into Terence Matthew’s room, but she wasn’t the creep’s first visitor.
General Miller had entered first.
“Go back ten minutes and play it at normal speed,” Trace croaked, unwilling to accept the truth that was about to play out. Again, Miller entered; then, several minutes later, Leona followed. “Keep the tape rolling in real time.”
A short while later, Miller and Leona walked, huddled together, Miller chatting and laughing as if he were just visiting an old friend. Leona’s smiles were more forced and she seemed a lot stiffer.
“Zoom in,” Trace said. He squinted. He couldn’t prove it, but given Leona’s posture, he could swear that Miller had a gun to her side.
“Get out,” Trace ordered the private. “I’ll take over from here.”
The kid squeaked an acknowledgment then hightailed it through the door. Trace’s fingers flew across the controls, searching other hallways for another view of Miller and Leona. It was as if they’d vanished until...
Bingo. Miller escorted her into his office.
Ten minutes later, General Miller stalked out in full dress uniform. Without Leona.
What the hell was going on? Trace fast-forwarded through until the present. No one had entered or exited the general’s room. Leona had to still be in there.
He raced to Miller’s office and tried the doorknob. Locked. He keyed in his code and pressed inside, breaking more regulations than he could count. If the general court-martialed Trace, so be it. Once inside, he pulled out his firearm and walked into the room with its walnut desk.
Photos with Miller shaking the hands of the previous five presidents lined the wall.
Feeling as if he were stepping on sacred ground, Trace rounded Miller’s desk and peered down at it. It was clean and pristine with the exception of a photo of his son in uniform that took up one corner.
The general had changed after his son’s death. His work was more driven, the man less forgiving. That made his happy countenance on the video footage even more suspicious.
Trace, his gun at the ready, walked the room, threw open a closet door and