Elise was entirely capable of handling things until he reached her—if she was healthy. But she wasn’t, and the quicker he dealt with this weaponry issue, the sooner he could be on his way.

Grabbing a crowbar off the top of a crate, he tapped it against the forklift’s metal roll bar to garner the operator’s attention.

Private Hughes flipped his head in Harry’s direction and cut the engine.

“Captain Benson, is there something I can do for you?” Hughes asked, meeting his eyes without apparent concern.

“Private Hughes, do you have a work order for this?” Harry indicated the crates loaded on the lift.

“I do, sir.” Hughes handed him a work order.

Harry checked the form. Two crates of assault rifles were to be transported to the port in Leith. Colonel Horwith’s signature filled the CO’s box at the bottom. Everything appeared in order.

There was just one glitch. Harry was familiar with Horwith’s writing, and this wasn’t it. Someone had forged his name. Was it Hughes or Thompson? Or both?

Harry lowered his chin while his mind whirled with images of bombs, collapsed schools, and mass graves. It didn’t bear thinking that these young men had played a role in so many deaths.

And what of Sammy and Elise?

Bile rose in Harry’s stomach, and he tasted acid. If he didn’t handle this issue now, thousands would die at the hands of General Nheshal’s army. Agony ripped through him like shrapnel, the sharp edges perforating his soul. Duty demanded that he complete this mission, even though everything inside him warred to save his son and the woman he loved. Harry steeled himself, then lowered the clipboard to his side. “May I ask who gave you this work order, Private Hughes?” Harry asked.

“Is something wrong, Captain Benson?” Hughes’s face took on a wary expression.

“I asked a direct question, Private Hughes. Who gave you this work order?”

“It came from the colonel.” Hughes swallowed.

“The colonel brought it to you directly?”

“No, sir. Lance Corporal Thompson asked me to fill it while he prepared the transport.”

“You don’t mind if I check out your story, do you?”

“No, sir.” Hughes’s eyes slid from Harry, and his color rose.

Harry removed the key from the forklift and pocketed it. With a chin jerk, he motioned for Private Hughes to precede him to the office. “This way, Private.”

“Am I in some sort of trouble, sir?” Hughes climbed out of the forklift, a deep crevice scoring his brow.

“Why don’t you tell me?” Harry bit out, furious at the blatant thievery.

Hughes wove from one aisle to the next as he headed toward the office. Harry followed, practically boring a hole in the back of Hughes’s skull. If Hughes so much as twitched, he’d whip out his Glock, regardless of the bunker filled with explosive devices.