Gathering the necessary information—unnoticed—wasn’t going to be an easy task. Everything was written on paper. For security reasons, none of the intel sheets, field reports, or mental health records were generated—or kept—on a computer.

Now that I wanted to make electronic copies of everything, I realized why we did things the way we did. Making physical copies of classified documents was a pain in the ass and an invitation to get caught.

Director Martin peeked into the doorway. “Burning the midnight oil, Doctor Rhoades?”

I held up a handful of blank paper covered by one sheet that I’d scribbled shorthand onto. “I’ve been taking shorthand for a few weeks. I need to get these notes transferred onto the DD-1026 forms and get them filed.”

He glanced at what I held, and then at me. “That’s a lost art, I’m afraid. I’ll leave you to it.”

I smiled. “Have a good night.”

After Martin was gone, I perused the files and listened to music. Beginning my work after dark would allow me to see the headlights of anyone who drove toward the facility.

I walked to the window, opened my blinds, and peered into the parking lot. After satisfying myself that it was truly empty, I began my venture of making copies of everything. Whatever Vincent felt he needed to warrant proceeding with his plan was exactly what I intended to provide him.

I filed a three-page report on one of the program’s operators every other day for three years. With the three-page report was a copy of the intel sheet. Additionally, I filed quarterly summaries of their mental health reports.

To make physical copies of the paperwork would require nearly three thousand pieces of paper to be printed.

The missing paper and empty toner cartridges alone would alert Wallace—or Martin—that something was fishy. Considering all things, I decided to take photographs. Rushing against the tick of an unknown clock, I began to frantically take pictures of everything Vincent had asked for.

Daily reports, signed by me, initialed by Wallace, and initialed by Martin. Intel reports signed by Wallace, and initialed by Martin. Lastly, I photographed requests for evaluation signed by Wallace and Martin.

The intel reports were filled with information about the upcoming missions they detailed. They included photographs, maps, names of the targets, and detailed instructions regarding their elimination.

It was enough to fry Martin, Wallace, and anyone above them in the chain of command.

Seven hours later, just before midnight, I had everything I felt I needed. I removed the Micro SD card I’d temporarily placed in the phone and replaced it with my old one. I then placed the new SD card in an envelope and addressed it to myself.

I affixed a stamp and dropped the envelope in my purse. After shredding the sheet of handwritten shorthand, I straightened up my office and headed for the door.

With my heart in my throat, I walked to my car at a brisk pace. Every few steps I glanced over my shoulder, fully expecting one of the men employed by the Office of the DNI to attack me.

With my mind racing as if I’d just robbed a bank, I drove to the military housing units. I dropped the envelope into one of the many mailboxes that lined the dark street. With a clean vehicle and a dirty conscience, I drove toward the gate.

Upon reaching the gate, an armed Marine guard approached my vehicle.

I rolled down my window. “Good evening, Sergeant.”

“Late night, Miss Rhoades?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir,” I said. “Transferring my handwritten notes to a permanent, user-friendly format wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped.”

He glanced at his watch, and then at me. “It’s 2355, Ma’am.”

“Wasn’t as easy as I hoped,” I said with a smile. “Did you miss that part?”

He gripped his weapon firmly and returned a stone-faced stare. “Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle?”

“Why would I need to—”

“Ma’am,” he said, his tone stern. “I need you to step out of the vehicle.”

I had nothing to hide. Being extracted from my car by an armed Marine made me nervous, nevertheless. I opened the door, got out, and faced him, trembling with wonder. “Now what?”

He held his rifle steady but didn’t point it at me. At least not yet. “Stay where you are, Ma’am. We’re going to search your vehicle.”

“You’re going to what?”

“We’re going to search your vehicle, Ma’am.”

“For what?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, Ma’am.”

Two Marines exited the guard shack and came to his side. Without a warrant, probable cause, or any reasoning, they ransacked my car. They searched under the hood and beneath the car with mirrors and flashlights. They then pulled the carpeting from the trunk and removed the back seats.

After rifling through my purse and searching my cellphone, they swept my car with electronic devices. Thirty minutes after the search began, they put everything back together gave me my personal effects.

Marine number one cleared his throat. “Sorry for the inconvenience, Ma’am.”

“I doubt Lt. Colonel Martin is going to be happy about this when I tell him about this clusterfuck,” I warned. “I’ve left this base no less than five days a week for three years and have yet to be searched like this. Did I lose the coin toss, or is there a reason for this travesty of justice?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, Ma’am.”

I offered a smug grin. “Isn’t that convenient?”

“Have a nice night, Ma’am.”

“Save it, Sergeant Miles,” I snapped. “It’s a little late for that.”

I got in my car and shot him a glare before driving away.

The only evidence of my fact-finding mission was in a mailbox that even the Marines couldn’t search. Satisfied that I’d completed the first stage of our investigation, I drove home exhausted, nervous, and thoroughly satisfied.

The next step was Vincent’s.