How a Fourteen-Year-Old War-Plant Heir and His Hero Rescue Dog Exposed His Treacherous Brother-in-Law’s $4,000,000 Sabotage Plot at a WWII Victory Gala After a Lethal Swarm Was Unleashed
I handed the slim, custom-built device to Captain Gallagher. It was heavier than it looked, nestled in my palm, still cool from the muddy grass.
Major stood rigid at my side, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest. His eyes fixed on Donald, who was now meticulously brushing dirt from his trousers as if nothing had happened.
Gallagher’s brow furrowed. He turned the device over in his hands, his gaze sharpening. The brass gleamed faintly in the late afternoon sun.
He pulled a small, folded magnifying glass from his vest pocket. Its lens caught the light, glinting.
“This isn’t an amateur job, Artie,” Gallagher murmured, his voice tight. He leaned closer, peering at the tiny components.
“The wiring… it’s too precise. And these vacuum tubes.”
He tapped a fingernail gently against a minuscule serial number. “These are War Department issue. Restricted.”
My stomach clenched. Restricted meant top-secret. Military grade. How could Donald have gotten his hands on something like this?
“These aren’t available to the public,” Gallagher continued, his voice barely a whisper, meant only for my ears. “Not even to most Kincaid employees. These are from a specific batch.”
A few guests milled nearby, chatting about the delicious hors d’oeuvres. A silver tray of miniature quiches passed within arm’s reach. The clinking of glasses felt distant, unreal.
“They’re for our most sensitive projects,” he said, straightening up. His eyes, usually sharp but calm, now held a glint of something cold. “Prototype shop only.”
The implications hit me like a physical blow. An inside job. Someone from within the Kincaid Defense Works had supplied Donald with parts.
Or Donald himself.
My gaze snapped to Donald, who was now laughing too loudly with a Navy Commodore near the punch bowl, his hand on Eleanor’s shoulder. She looked pale, her silk dress rustling.
“I need to know how this ended up in your brother-in-law’s possession, Artie,” Gallagher said, his voice firm, drawing me back. “And why it’s rigged to a hornet’s nest at a Victory Gala.”
The absurdity of it all was overwhelming. A $4,000,000 defense contract hanging in the balance, endangered by a swarm of angry hornets and a tiny, military-grade remote.
Major nudged my hand, a silent command to focus. He seemed to understand the gravity of the situation better than anyone.
Gallagher tucked the remote carefully into an inside pocket of his uniform jacket. “This changes things. Dramatically.”
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