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Chase began walking through the office, turning off every electronic device—phones, laptops, monitors. Next he walked down the hall to a small, locked supply closet. He keyed in a series of numbers and the door swung open. Instead of cleaning supplies or spare printer cartridges, the space held a small armory. He scanned the shelves until he found what he was looking for—a small black box.
He walked to the far end of his office suite and powered up the device: a radio frequency detector. The device was top-of-the-line and would detect most commercial bugs, hidden cameras, GPS trackers, or any object that was transmitting a signal.
Unlikely as it was that anyone could have penetrated FIRST’s spaces undetected by him or Madison, he had to accept the possibility. Certainty meant hubris of the kind that had caused shame and humiliation to many a base commander during his JSIVA days.
Chase would know better than most. His unit’s mission was to conduct clandestine assessments—of American military bases.
JSIVA (Joint Staff Integrated Vulnerability Assessment) had recruited Chase based on his proficiency in direct action, counterterrorism, and special reconnaissance. Meaning Chase was a good guy who’d spent his days thinking like a bad guy—surveilling, probing, and gathering intel just as a terrorist cell would—in order to spot the potential risks before the real bad guys did.
His time at JSIVA had planted the seed for FIRST. It also taught him that complacency kills.
Chase swept his offices twice but found no sign of surveillance. He returned to FIRST’s armory, to retrieve a 9-millimeter pistol, a waistband holster, and two magazines, before securing the door once more.
His mind was racing as he planned his next sweeps: his house and his family.
CHAPTER 9
CHASE DIDN’T SEE the figure rushing at him until it was too late.
As he opened the front door to his home, he registered the blur of movement down the long hallway. Chase closed the door behind him and kept his weapon holstered as he dropped into a defensive posture. Knees bent. Balls of his feet. Hands floating.
Luke came at him fast, dribbling a neon soccer ball from foot to foot, almost too fast to see.
Keep your eye on the ball, Chase…
Luke juked left. Chase feinted right.
Somehow, in the space of a second, Luke zigged, zagged, then zigged again. Chase was defenseless as Luke shot the ball right between his father’s legs—a nutmeg. The ball bounced off the front door with a loud smack.
It was a frequent father-son ritual, Luke trying to “meg” him in a one-on-one contest. Occasionally Chase’s defenses held.
Today was not that day.
“Knock it off!” called Shay from the kitchen. “I’ve told you two not to play soccer inside.”
Caught, father and son both went silent. Then Luke bolted up the stairs before Shay emerged from the kitchen to issue her next command.
“You,” said Shay to Luke, pointing without bothering to turn toward him, “wash up. Dinner in five.”
From the landing, Luke caught his father’s eye and smiled. Behind his mother’s back, he pumped his arms in victory before disappearing.
“Ava,” called Shay, “play something relaxing so I don’t murder my husband.”
Ava, Avalon’s proprietary answer to Google Home or Amazon Echo, cooed, “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize ‘something relaxing so I don’t murder my husband.’”
“Just play some Norah Jones,” Shay said, and sighed.
“Playing Norah Jones…”
“And you…” said Shay, advancing on Chase as the opening bars to “Don’t Know Why” sounded.
“Hey,” protested Chase, “one of these days that kid is going to break my ankles.”
“Poor baby,” said Shay, making a face. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. Just as Chase was getting into it, Shay pulled away. “Now go get your daughter for dinner.”
“No fair.”
“No ball in the house.”
