My Boss Forced Me To Approve Defective Armor For Frontline Soldiers—When His Enforcer Grabbed Me In The Base Washhouse, I Put Him On The Floor And Uncovered His Darkest Secret
The Saigon lab report, confirming Ward was murdered by his own biological father, landed like a mortar round in the middle of my investigation. It twisted everything I thought I knew, shifting the focus from corporate malfeasance to a deeply personal, horrifying betrayal.
My mind raced back to Silas’s discovery: Gerald Albright, the imposter Finch, had stolen an identity in 1945. What had he done before that? Where had he been?
I immediately got back on the ham radio, the static a constant companion. “Blue Jay, this is Nightingale. I need a deeper dive on Gerald Albright. Before 1945. Any family. Any connections.”
Silas, ever diligent, took the task without question. He understood the urgency in my voice.
Another sleepless night passed, filled with the hum of the radio and the oppressive heat. I poured over Ward’s logbook again, searching for any hint, any name, any detail that might connect him to his biological father. Nothing. Ward’s notes were meticulously about the steel, the reports, the numbers. No personal details.
Then, just before dawn, Silas’s voice crackled through. He sounded grim.
“Evie, I found something. It’s ugly.”
“Tell me,” I urged, my hand gripping the microphone.
“Gerald Albright didn’t just disappear after 1945,” Silas explained. “He had a life before. A brief one. In Ohio. 1948.”
Ohio. Ward’s hometown, according to his service records. My blood ran cold.
“He was using an alias then too,” Silas continued. “A ‘George Miller.’ He was working in a small manufacturing plant, just passing through. Had a brief affair with a young woman there. Got her pregnant.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and sickening.
“He skipped town before the child was born,” Silas finished, his voice laced with disgust. “Vanished. Left the woman with nothing.”
My mind put the pieces together, assembling a horrific mosaic. “The child,” I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. “That child… was Thomas Ward.”
Silas didn’t reply, but his silence was confirmation.
Private Thomas Ward, the honest, observant clerk, had unknowingly been assigned to the very logistics base his biological father, Gerald Albright, ran under a stolen identity. Ward, driven by integrity, had uncovered the corruption of the man who had abandoned him decades earlier.
And when Ward got too close, when his meticulously documented logbook threatened to expose Albright’s multi-million dollar fraud, his own father had him murdered. Not by his own hand, but by hired mercenaries, inside a locked depot, shot from behind. A betrayal beyond comprehension.
The twist was so vile, so depraved, it took my breath away. Garrison Finch, the ruthless corporate executive, was not just a war profiteer; he was a cold-blooded patricide, orchestrating the murder of his own son to protect his stolen life and ill-gotten gains. And now, I held the proof of that unspeakable act.
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