Heading back toward the car, Gilmont determined to appoint Agent Taylor as the first donor of his organ-harvesting project. And if the good doctor’s anesthetic shipment had not yet arrived when he brought Agent Taylor in, so much the better.

Harry burst into the munitions office, the door banging behind him. Lance Corporal Thompson, the lone occupant of the room, quickly screwed the cap on a silver flask and dropped it into a desk drawer. He jumped to attention, knocking over his chair in the process. It clattered to the floor and blocked the adjoining door into the bunker.

“Captain Benson,” Thompson slurred. “I thought you left for the day.”

“I need some equipment.” Ignoring the scent of whiskey on the man’s breath, Harry righted Thompson’s chair and moved to go around him. Thompson sidestepped Harry and impeded his course.

“I didn’t receive an order.” Thompson’s gaze darted furtively toward the door.

“Trust me; you’ll receive an order momentarily,” Harry stated. “We’ll discuss the ramifications of that whiskey flask after I take care of a more urgent matter.”

The telephone rang, pealing madly in the confined space. Without shifting position, Thompson flicked his eyes toward the phone, then back to Harry.

“Are you going to answer that, Lance Corporal Thompson?”

Thompson’s Adam’s apple bobbed twice before he picked up the receiver. “Munitions-A Bunker.”

Harry waited. This had to be his call. Without an order, he could be court-martialed for helping himself to the weapons cache. Which reminded him—he needed to pick up more clips for his Glock when he dashed home for his gear. He was almost out.

“Yes, sir.” Thompson’s eyes rested on Harry. More throat bobbing. “I see, sir. Of course, sir.”

Thompson set the receiver on its cradle, and all the bravado seeped out of him like a deflating tire. “Captain Benson, you’ve been granted permission to take what you need.”

“Excellent.”

Harry snatched the clipboard of scheduled armament shipments on his way through the door, the bunker’s layout of firearms taped to its backside. That should inform him where the jet suits were stored.

Beep. Beep. Beep. A forklift’s high-pitched alarm reverberated through the bunker as it moved two large crates toward an open bay.

Harry flipped through the orders on the clipboard, a crease between his brows. No outgoing shipments were scheduled until the end of the week. Why were those crates being moved from the bunker? Then, like a lightning strike, it hit him. He’d been slow on the uptake, doubtless due to his concern for Sammy and Elise. After all this time, he had stumbled across the munitions thief when his son needed him the most. This couldn’t be happening. Not now.

Stiff-legged, Harry marched down the aisle toward the heavy machinery, his shoes slapping against the concrete. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. The thought beat a tattoo inside his skull. Sammy and Elise need you. Hurry.