Page 26 of Logan’s Way

Angus had logged into the interstate case reference system—the same database he’d used for a decade to cross-check records between jurisdictions. Routine. Automatic. The kind of action that required no thought because he had been performing it hundreds of times before.

He entered his credentials. The system accepted them. The loading screen appeared, then:

Authorization Unavailable

Access scope cannot be verified. Please contact your administrator.

No red text. No warning sound. Just a gray dialog box with neutral language and a button labeled “OK.”

Angus clicked it. The system returned to the login screen.

He tried again, entering his credentials more carefully this time, making sure every character was correct. Same result. The system accepted his login but denied access to the database itself.

Scout lifted his head from where he had been sleeping near the table, sensing something wrong in the quality of Angus’s stillness.

Angus opened a different system—the national missing persons database. Same credentials, same login process he’d used for years. This time the loading screen appeared and held for longer than usual, as if the system were checking something beyond routine authentication.

Then:

Access Currently Restricted

For assistance, please contact your department administrator.

Angus closed his laptop and sat in the quiet of his kitchen. Morning light filtered through the windows. Coffee cooled in his mug. Outside, Weyport continued its ordinary rhythm—garbage trucks making rounds, neighbors leaving for work, the town operating according to schedule and routine.

Inside, Sheriff Angus Reid had just been locked out of databases he’d accessed daily for a decade.

He pulled out his phone and opened the same systems through his mobile browser. The missing persons database loaded partially—public-facing information appeared, but the detailed case files he’d always been able to view were grayed out, inaccessible. The interstate reference system wouldn’t load at all beyond the login screen.

Then he tried his personal laptop—the one not issued by the department. The one connected through his home internet, paid for with his own money, carrying no official credentials.

Public databases loaded normally. Vital records searches worked. General information appeared without issue. Everything a civilian could access remained accessible.

Everything that required law enforcement credentials was closed.

Angus had been locked out. Not everywhere. Not completely. Just from the systems that marked him as someone with authority, with clearance, with the right to access details civilians couldn’t.

Someone had restricted his access without suspending it. They had created a barrier disguised as a technical issue, quietly restricting what he could see while preserving just enough access to avoid drawing attention.

Scout stood and nudged his elbow, the collie’s way of checking in. Unbothered by gray dialog boxes and bureaucratic language.

Angus pulled up his department email on the personal laptop. Civilian access only, but email should still work. His inbox loaded normally—routine messages, department updates, notifications that had accumulated during his leave. Nothing unusual.

Except that, filed automatically in his administrative folder, was a notice he hadn’t received but that had apparently been issued:

SUBJECT: Administrative Access Alignment

The email had no sender—just “System Administrator” in the From field. No timestamp beyond the date it was filed. No signature. Just text:

Your network access profile is currently undergoing routine administrative alignment to ensure proper authorization scope during your approved leave period. This process is automated and requires no action on your part. Access levels will be restored in accordance with standard protocols upon your return to active duty. For questions regarding this adjustment, please contact your department’s IT coordinator

.

Angus read it twice. Then a third time.

At the bottom of the notice, beneath the standard footer language, was a reference code Angus didn’t recognize.

It wasn’t an error code. It looked like an internal classification tag.