Page 70 of Freeing Lark

Hoot stared at the screen. “So he’s running weapons.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“Not just weapons,” Baker added. “Information.” He clicked again. “Someone is trafficking classified data alongside the hardware.”

Hoot felt something cold settle in his gut. “What about PSG?”

Baker’s expression changed. “I was hoping you’d ask.” The screen filled with corrupted files. “Remember the data recovered from the vault during the Afghanistan mission?” Hoot’s heart gave one hard thump. Baker continued. “Most of it was damaged. But I’ve managed to reconstruct portions of it.” Files appeared. Fragmented images. Symbols. One of them showed the unmistakable outline of a Roman-style helmet. Hoot went still. It matched the partial one Lark had found.

“That’s PSG,” Voodoo said quietly.

“Exactly.” Baker enlarged another fragment. “There were references to shipments, payment schedules, extraction points, and something called Project Praetor.”

Flint exchanged a look with Hoot. “So the scientist was working with PSG.”

“And that’s why they took custody of him,” Voodoo concluded.

“That’s my working theory,” Baker said. “The scientist had access to information that could expose the entire operation. PSG needed the data secured before anyone else could get it.”

“Which explains why they were there,” Hoot said.

“Right.”

Hoot’s mind raced backward through the mission. The vault with the servers. Something wasn’t fitting. Then it hit him. “Bullet.” Everyone looked at him. “He was the first one into the vault.”

Flint’s expression hardened. Hoot could see it happening in the others’ faces too.

“If he saw something...” Voodoo whispered.

“Something he wasn’t supposed to see,” Hoot finished.

The room went silent. Bullet hadn’t simply stumbled into the wrong place. He might have discovered something. Something that had gotten him killed. Hoot’s heart began pounding.

And then Lark’s voice echoed in his head. What if “pray” wasn’t a request? He stared at the PSG symbol on the screen. Praetorian. Pray.

His breath caught. “Jesus.”

Flint looked at him. “What?”

“Praetorian.” Hoot pointed at the screen. “Maybe Bullet wasn’t saying pray.”

Voodoo’s eyes widened. “He was trying to say Praetorian.”

“Exactly.” Eight years. Eight years of believing Bullet’s final word had been a plea. And all this time it might have been a name. A warning. A final attempt to tell them who was behind the mission.

Baker cleared his throat. “And there’s more.” Hoot looked at the screen. Baker hesitated. “PSG isn’t just moving weapons overseas.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

Hoot’s blood chilled. “Inside the States?”

“Yes.” Baker brought up a map. “Waterways. Rivers. Coastal routes. Smaller ports. Places where containers can disappear into legitimate commercial traffic.”

The image of the broken crate slammed into Hoot’s mind. The island. The disturbed ground. The symbol burned into the wood.

He sat forward. “The crate.” Everyone looked at him. “Lark found a piece of a crate on the island.”