Bruce pulled out the penlight he had borrowed from the clinic as he turned down the darkened hallway. It was close to midnight and the abandoned offices were shrouded in a thick blackness commonplace in these buildings of no windows when the lights were off.

After only two weeks, he had reacclimated to the sounds of war: the comings and goings of patrols, the high pitched wail of sirens warning of rocket attacks in the area, the loud boom from the base's own artillery pits as they returned fire or shot off illumination rounds. Sometimes it disturbed his sleep, but more often it was the nightmares that awoke him in the middle of the night. He had expected that, his surroundings triggering the vivid flashbacks.

Bruce stopped in front of the administrative office and pulled out his key. The only reason he and Claire had each been given one was to gain access to medical records stored within. He stepped inside the large rectangular room, its walls lined by chest-high filing cabinets, three of which belonged to the medical team.

Morris's office was located at the back. His door was always open, but during the day his secretary ruled that entrance like a headmistress at a boarding school. Two men and four women worked at the other cubicles arranged throughout the open space. Bruce had made a point of getting to know each and every one of them over lunch. With such close working conditions, there was always the possibility that someone knew something about Morris's extracurricular activities, even if they weren't aware of the relevance.

So far, he had come up empty.

He had sent the copy of Morris's hard drive to the Nest. From there it had gone to HQMC for review, but everything on it turned out to be part of standard operations. The news had been disappointing, but Bruce wasn't giving up. He had learned a few things about Morris—things he was using to his advantage.

For starters, the man was an excellent chess player. They got together for a few hours each night over the checkered game board. Luckily, Bruce was good enough to provide a challenge and hold Morris's interest, although he had yet to win a game.

He'd also discovered that the major general was a misogynistic bastard, his opinion on women in combat—or anywhere outside the kitchen and bedroom for that matter—made clear in conversations. Few people saw that side of the man. He was a con, an expert at reflecting back opinions to make people believe he was just like them. But Bruce knew how to play that game too. Certainly, his sexual history gave him a vast pool of women to objectify. Only problem was, the stories he told Morris started a tally on the one-night stands in his past. And as the count grew higher and higher, Bruce couldn't help but wonder if he, too, was a misogynistic bastard.

Nevertheless, it was working. For Morris, those shared interests and beliefs, along with his private stock of Hennessy cognac, which he poured liberally each night, provided a false sense of fellowship that made the major general carefree.

In Bruce's experience, carefree was but one step away from careless.

It hadn't taken long to gain access to the storage room located inside Morris's office. The second night into their game, Morris had been locking it up just as Bruce arrived. The keys were then tossed into a pocket of the jacket hanging off the back of his chair. When Morris excused himself later for a bathroom break, Bruce dug out the keys and unlocked the door, hoping Morris wouldn't notice. It was risky, but the guy didn't seem like the neurotic type. Sure enough, after a few drinks and some well thought out moves, the last thing on Morris's mind was double-checking locks. The jacket was thrown over his shoulder, lights extinguished, and the two of them walked the hall side-by-side before going off to their respective quarters.

Once his roomies had fallen asleep, Bruce had returned.

It had become his nightly routine.

With the tiny beam from his penlight leading the way, Bruce navigated the outer room and made a left upon entering Morris's office. Putting a hand on the knob of the storage room door, he hesitated, anticipating what was coming next. None of the prefab buildings on base were known for their perfect assembly, but this particular door and frame combo was an abomination. Giving it a nudge, hinges creaked their way through the first few inches of opening like an old, rusted-out pickup. His heart raced, as it did every night, while he stood motionless in the dark, listening for the sound of footfalls. Satisfied that nobody was running in to secure the premises, he pushed the door all the way open and slipped inside.

The space was the size of a small bedroom and was probably designed to be just that. Shelves were mounted on the wall opposite the door, lined with binders all bearing the red, blue and gold seal that read DEPARTMENT OF THE NAVY/UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS. Boxes sat along one adjacent wall and a floor to ceiling bookcase covered the other.

Photo albums were stacked ten high in a corner. Bruce had already been through those. Morris hadn't been kidding about his hobby—the pictures documented the history of the base from initial construction to present day and provided a visual record of all the battalions and equipment that had passed through it.

A little surprise had been waiting for him among the most recent pictures: A shot of Claire standing alone, a long line of the base's tents in the background. Her face carried a smile, but he knew her well enough to know it bordered on impatience. Making a split second decision, Bruce had pulled the picture out, folded it in quarters, and shoved it in his pocket before rearranging the remaining to fill the empty spot. Later, he had stashed it under his pillow.

Each night since, as he turned in for the second time, he found himself picking the picture up and tracing the face staring back at him with his finger. It was the strangest thing, and he couldn't explain why, but it soothed him in some way.

Leaving the door open to hear any unexpected arrivals, he set to work, continuing from where he had left off the night before.

)l(

Paul had his head down, reviewing the sequencing of documents, when a file with an eight-by-ten glossy clipped to its front landed at his elbow. He looked up to find one of Carter's female agents standing by his desk.

"That's Michelle Callahan," she said, pointing down at the photo. She took a few chews of the gum in her mouth before adding, "Her father is big in the lumber industry and heavy into gambling—been in and out of rehab twice. Michelle went into retail a few years ago and has been importing rugs from Pakistan ever since."

Paul gave her a clipped, "So?" He really wasn't in the mood for the usual FBI aloofness, what with the mountain of paperwork still waiting to be prioritized.

"She visits Gus on a regular basis, usually around the end of the month."

Paul shrugged. "Maybe they're friends."

There was a barely audible snort followed up with more gum chewing as the agent stared down at him. With a tone sounding close to patronizing, she touted, "You don't know Gus very well, do you? He doesn't do the friend thing—never learned to play well with others."

Irritation rolled down Paul's spine, but he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. Leaning back in his chair, he picked up the picture. "Wow."

"You got anything more insightful than just 'wow' in that head of yours?"

Jesus, what is it with these agents? Was being annoying a prerequisite for the job? "I was just reacting to how much she looks like Marilyn Monroe," he said dryly.

The agent put a hand on his desk and leaned forward to join in on the perusal. "Yeah, well, that look is a little tired, don't you think?"

Paul glanced up at her. She was the sort of woman who tended to resent the blonde bombshell types: dark hair pulled back severely; round glasses too big for her features and hanging low at the end of her nose; navy blue business suit all crisp and clean with the white blouse giving off a professional but prudish appearance.

Probably smart too.

Perhaps he should hear her out.

He put the picture down, crossed his arms, and gave her his full attention. "You think she's smuggling the weapons in?"

"Could be."

"Why are you bringing this to me? Shouldn't you be talking to your boss?"

"Agent Carter says its nothing."

"Ah." Paul nodded.

"He's wrong."

Huh. Maybe the agents weren't all homogeneous copies of each other after all. "Does Ms. Callahan have a record?"

"No. But the father has had some heavy betting losses and owes Gus big time. Father and daughter are very close. I wouldn't put it past Gus to hold it over her head, force her to—"

A soft ding drew Paul's attention to his computer. Straightening in his chair he made a grab for his mouse while directing, "Leave the file with me. I'll take a look at it."

Not seeming to like the curt dismissal, she frowned down at him for another gum-chewing moment before heading back to her desk. He couldn't be sure—it went against the FBI's impassive nature—but he thought he heard her mutter "Jerk" when she turned away.

As his screen popped to life, his focus shifted to the message waiting.

Paul had been at the Nest every day. As it turned out, his experience in the courtroom had proven invaluable as he helped the agents organize the vast amount of information at their disposal. Even Agent Carter had grunted his approval at the speed to which it was all coming together.

Mark and his men stayed away while Bruce was overseas, not wanting to take a chance on raising any suspicions on this end. Paul was the one who kept them up to date, heading over to the estate each evening to brief them on the day's events. Adam, Ben, and Steve had accepted Paul into their group with easy camaraderie. Mark was always welcoming and anxious to see him, particularly on the evenings when there was news of his friend.

Bruce reported in once a week, every Friday at noon—after midnight in Afghanistan. His statements were factual details of his findings over the real-time direct text-based communication. He didn't dare risk video calling on the overcrowded base.

The message on screen announced his second weekly check-in:

BRUCE: I'VE BEEN GOING THROUGH THAT STORAGE ROOM WITH A FINE TOOTH COMB. SO FAR IT'S ALL THE STANDARD STUFF, REGULATIONS, OPERATIONS, PERSONAL CORRESPONDENCE FROM WASHINGTON. THERE ARE A COUPLE OF MUNITIONS DOCUMENTS I'M ATTACHING, BUT THEY ALL LOOK LEGIT.

Paul typed his response:

PAUL: WE'VE GOT ENOUGH TO LOCK UP GUS FOR GOOD. PERHAPS WE SHOULD GIVE UP ON FINDING THE SOURCE.

BRUCE: NO. IN MY GUT I KNOW IT'S HIM. THE PROOF HAS GOT TO BE HERE SOMEWHERE. ANYTHING NEW ON YOUR END?

Paul's eyes drifted to the agent across the room. She had returned to her computer and was sitting with her back to him, unaware of his scrutiny. Pictures were flashing across the screen in front of her at a pace so fast he wondered how any of it was registering.

He continued:

PAUL: LOOK FOR THE NAME MICHELLE CALLAHAN. SHE'S CONNECTED TO GUS AND IS SHIPPING RUGS OUT OF PAKISTAN. IT MAY BE NOTHING, BUT ONE OF CARTER'S PEOPLE THINKS IT'S RELEVANT.

BRUCE: WILL DO.

PAUL: GOOD LUCK.

There was a pause in the writing before Bruce added a personal note, asking the question Paul had been expecting to see type across the screen since the day Bruce had left.

It read:

BRUCE: HOW IS SHE? HAS ANYONE HEARD FROM HER?

PAUL: YES. HE GETS TEXTS FROM HER ONCE A DAY, IN THE EVENING. YOU CAN TELL WHEN THEY COME IN, HIS FACE LIGHTS UP LIKE A KID ON CHRISTMAS MORNING. THE CONTRACT HAS BEEN LIFTED. SHE IS SAFE.

BRUCE: GOOD.

PAUL: HOW IS THE PRETTY DOCTOR?

BRUCE: ANNOYING. BUT SHE IS SMART. I'M LEARNING A LOT ABOUT MEDICINE. IT'S INTERESTING.

PAUL: I'VE BEEN LEARNING A LOT TOO.

BRUCE: GOOD.

PAUL: NO "I TOLD YOU SO"?

BRUCE: I'LL SAVE THAT FOR WHEN I SEE YOU NEXT.

Paul signed off, praying that all would go well and Bruce's final statement would happen soon. He eliminated the personal portion from the details before making copies for his meeting with Mark.

END OF CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

So things aren't going as easily as Bruce thought, are they?

Coming up: Gus is on the rampage. Guess who is target is?

Dedicated to @saakshisuresh11 for the many great comments and and all your enthusiasm. Thank you, my little cheerleader!