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
My theory about Brogan lay in shattered pieces, but the blood-stained rag remained. It was still the most vital piece of evidence, pointing to a killer whose identity was now completely unknown. This preliminary field test was useful, but it wasn’t enough. I needed more.
“This rag,” I told O’Brien, holding it up. “It needs proper forensic analysis. Beyond basic blood typing.”
O’Brien nodded, understanding the gravity. “The 9th Medical Lab in Saigon. They have the best equipment. But getting anything in or out securely… that’s a problem.”
“Major Callahan,” I suggested. “He’s bound by procedure, but he also despises Finch. He’s my only way to get this to Saigon without it disappearing.”
I drafted a carefully worded memo, detailing the circumstances of Ward’s death, the discovery of the rag, and the need for advanced serological and genetic marker testing. I deliberately omitted any mention of “Gerald Albright” or the stolen identity for now. I stuck to facts, hoping to appeal to Callahan’s sense of duty, however jaded.
O’Brien, with a nod, took the package and disappeared into the night. It was a risk, entrusting the crucial evidence to a man who, officially, had to arrest me. But Callahan was my best, and only, shot.
Days later, the ham radio crackled to life. It wasn’t Silas. It was Callahan. His voice was low, strained, and filled with a new kind of urgency.
“Kincaid, the report came back from Saigon,” he said, his voice barely audible over the static. “It’s… unsettling.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “What did it say, Major?”
“The lab confirmed the blood type you identified. A-positive. But they went deeper. They found specific genetic markers. Rare ones.”
I held my breath, waiting.
“They ran a cross-reference with Private Ward’s tissue samples, the ones I sent along with the rag,” Callahan continued, his voice tight. “The blood on that rag shares significant paternal biological markers with Private Ward.”
Paternal biological markers. The words echoed in my head.
“Meaning…?” I whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer.
“Meaning,” Callahan stated, his voice now flat with grim finality, “the blood on that rag belongs to Private Thomas Ward’s biological father.”
The air left my lungs in a whoosh. My mind reeled. The killer wasn’t a random thug. It wasn’t Brogan. It was Ward’s own father. The man who had sent him to his death.
But how? Why? Thomas Ward was just a clerk. Who was his father? And what connection did he have to Finch and Vanguard Logistics? The implications were staggering, a level of depravity I hadn’t considered. This wasn’t just corporate fraud anymore. This was a twisted, personal betrayal.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours