Page 3 of Duty Compromised
He broke off as Jolly stood up, his attention focused on the door.
“Someone’s coming,” Ben said.
Sure enough, a knock came a few seconds later at the side door, and my friend George Mercer stepped inside. One look at the man I’d served with in the Army told me something was wrong. His shirt was wrinkled, two days of stubble darkened his jaw, and the shadows under his eyes said sleep hadn’t been on his agenda lately.
“George.” I stopped and pulled off my gloves. “Hey, man. How are you? What are you doing here?”
“Ty.” He stepped inside, eyes scanning the space with the automatic threat assessment we all did. “Sorry to show up like this, but I need your help and I had to ask in person.”
I walked over and shook his hand. George and I had served together briefly before he traded his uniform for an FBI badge. I’d worked with him a couple times since then when Citadel and the FBI had crossed paths.
George was usually unflappable, the kind of guy who could crack jokes while under fire. But right now, he looked more rattled than I’d ever seen him. And I damned well knew George hadn’t driven from his Springfield field office to Rocheport without calling first unless something was seriously wrong.
“What’s going on?”
He glanced at Donovan and Ben, then back at me, clearly uncertain about speaking in front of strangers.
“My brother Donovan,” I said, nodding toward him. “Just got out of the Army six months ago. And Ben Garrison—he’s with Citadel too, K9 handler. I trust them both. I’d run ops with them.”
George studied them for a moment, then nodded. “If they have your trust, they have mine.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Look, I don’t even know how to make this simple.”
Ben shrugged. “Then make it complicated.”
He let out a sigh. “Fine. One of my colleagues from the field office was killed a few days ago, and I’m scrambling trying to cover all his cases. Some of which are borderline high-profile.”
“Killed how?” Donovan’s whole demeanor shifted.
“Shot. In his own apartment.” His hands wouldn’t stop moving—drumming against his leg, pushing through his hair, passing his phone from hand to hand. “All current evidence points to suicide, but…” He shook his head.
“That sucks, man,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. There was also a data breach around the same time, maybe unrelated, but several cybercrime cases might be compromised—we’re still sorting through the mess. I’ve been assigned to deal with his caseload.”
“Jesus.” I reached for my water bottle, mind already running scenarios. “What do you need?”
“Someone I can trust.” George met my eyes. “Look, I’m trying to handle multiple situations here. One of them involves this place called Vertex Dynamics—quantum computing R&D lab on the Illinois side, outside St. Louis. They developed something called the Cascade Protocol. Some kind of fancy signal technology related to lithium-ion batteries.”
Donovan snorted. “Sounds right up Ty’s alley. He’s always been fascinated by quantum physics.”
I ignored him. School had never been my thing—barely scraped through high school, while my siblings collected degrees like baseball cards. But I didn’t need to understand quantum physics to keep people safe.
“The team there turned over their research to us six months ago when they realized it could be weaponized,” George continued. “I need someone watching that lab I know I can trust. Until the dust settles in the Bureau and we figure out exactly what the hell is going on?—”
“You’re going off book,” I finished for him.
“Completely. This would be between us only.” George looked exhausted. “Look, you and I went through hell together in Helmand. I trust you. When I called Citadel’s main number asking for you, they said you were here on medical leave.”
I rolled my shoulder, testing the range of motion. The wound pulled but didn’t scream. “I’m functional.”
“Barely,” Donovan muttered.
“Functional enough for babysitting duty?” George asked. “Because that’s all this should be. Very routine. Just keeping an eye on the science team while the Bureau gets its shit together. Couple weeks, tops.”
Routine. In my experience, nothing described as routine ever was. But sitting here for another month, counting ceiling tiles and driving my family crazy, wasn’t an option.
“The team at Vertex,” I said. “What are we talking about? How many people?”
“Maybe a dozen scientists and support staff. Bunch of academics, led by a Dr. C.L. Gifford. I don’t have all the details memorized, but I will send you the file.” George shrugged. “Honestly, with everything else going on, this is probably nothing. But I can’t leave it uncovered.”
