"Where is the rest of it?" I asked, my tone sharp.

  The quartermaster hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering he placed the gun on the counter and took the clipboard from my hands. "Some soldiers were ordered to test them. We’ve already issued the rifles and munitions," he said. I wasn’t convinced. Not one bit. "Show me the entry register," I ordered. His expression barely changed, but there was something in his stance—a stiffness—that told me he was hiding something. "Only the colonel has permission to issue those rifles. I get orders directly from his office, and I record them in a separate register… which I can’t show you."

  A lie.

  It wasn’t the words that gave it away—it was the way he said it. The slight shift in his voice, the way his fingers tightened around the clipboard he was holding. He knew I didn’t have clearance for that register. Only the colonel or someone with written authorization could access it.

  And I had a feeling I’d never get that permission.

  But if what I suspected was happening here was true, there was still a way to prove it.

  "Show me the inventory catalogue."

  His face went pale.

  "Sir, you’re in violation of protocol. You had no clearance to see the cargo manifest—you could be arrested on charges of espionage." He was trying to bluff. But I knew better. Every commissioned officer had the right to access the inventory catalogue. And no warrant officer—not even a quartermaster—could deny that.

  I took a step closer, lowering my voice to a calm, almost casual tone.

  "Quartermaster, you have two options. Either you show me the inventory catalogue, or I break your legs, read the catalogue myself, and then drag you to the MPs. Choice is yours."

  His breath hitched. His hands trembled.

  And then—

  "Sir… please… I didn’t want to do it."

  He broke.

  I grabbed him by the collar and threw him to the ground. He crashed into a stack of crates, the dull clang of empty magazines rattling across the floor. "Where are they?" My voice was sharp, seething—barely contained rage spilling through every word.

  "I don’t know—I swear, I don’t know!" He gasped, panic choking his voice. I wasn’t satisfied. I yanked him back up, forcing him to meet my eyes. His hands trembled, his breath shallow. He kept insisting—he didn’t know where the rest of the shipment had gone. "I was only told to log what arrived," he stammered. "To look the other way. They… they said they’d pay me for it." I clenched my jaw. Bribery. Of course. But then his voice dropped lower—barely a whisper. "I told them no. That I would report it." He swallowed hard, eyes darting to the door like someone might be listening. "That’s when they showed me the pictures." A shiver ran through his body. "Pictures of my family. My wife. My kids. My son leaving preschool. They said…" he choked, his voice breaking. "They said if I didn’t do what they ordered, they’d kill them. Make it slow. Horrible. And then they’d pin everything on me." I let go of him after his answer. This wasn’t just theft. It was blackmail. Threats. A level of corruption far worse than I expected. And I had just stepped right into it.

  "Who told you to do it?" I asked, my voice low, controlled—but carrying an unmistakable edge.

  His face twisted in fear. "You don’t want to get involved in this," he muttered, almost pleading.

  I exhaled sharply. "Listen to me. You have two choices." I stepped closer, towering over him. "Tell me now, and I might be able to get you out of this quietly. Or I drag you to the MPs and let them tear through every log, every shipment, every damn transaction you’ve ever touched." His breathing was ragged, his eyes darting like a trapped animal.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  For a moment, I thought he’d keep resisting. But then—"The colonel," he finally admitted. "And… some others. I don’t know who, but I could tell they were military."

  I felt my pulse slow. The colonel. I had my answer. But it only led to bigger questions.

  "What about the cargo manifest?" I asked. "If this discrepancy gets reported—anonymously or not—it would trigger a full-on investigation."

  The quartermaster hesitated. "The manifest is only verified by a National Security Council (NSC) officer at the manufacturing facility. After that, it gets confirmed by the Chief Warrant Officer of Logistics in the presence of the regiment commander, then by me. No one else has clearance to review it."

  So that meant any official audit would have to pass through them.

  "But…" he hesitated, lowering his voice. "To be safe, they told me to bring the cargo manifest to them, tonight." That gave me an idea I stepped back. "Clean this up. If anyone asks, you slipped on cleaning liquid. Do what they told you, and this conversation never happened." He nodded quickly, wiping the sweat from his brow. As I walked out of the armory, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. A friend in CID—a major I trained with at the officer’s academy. The line clicked. Before he could speak, I cut in. "I don’t care how, but find a reason—or make one—to be on my base tonight."

  "You threw him to the ground?" The major shot me a look, half amused, half exasperated, as we sat in his car a safe distance from the armory. Outside, we waited for the quartermaster to make his move. "Don’t you have CCTV in there?" he asked. "What if someone on watch duty saw and reported it?" I smirked, leaning back in my seat. "Be honest—when we were fresh out of the academy, did we ever keep our eyes on the screens during watch duty? "He snorted. "Fair point."

  How the hell are you going to get away with this?" the major asked, his voice edged with skepticism. "You got this intel from classified documents you had no clearance to access." I shrugged. "It was a coincidence. The manifest was just lying on top of his desk, and the weapon crates were right there. It’s not like I broke into anything. It was just… there." He gave me a deadpan look. "You know you’re still getting reprimanded for this, right?" I let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah? Like I have an illustrious career to protect." he major exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Maybe you don’t see it, but soldiers talk." I raised a brow. "And?" "I’ve heard about the missions you’ve been on," he continued, his tone more serious. "You’re one of the best military leaders of our generation. And as someone who trained alongside you, I know for a fact that none of us can hold a candle to you."

  His eyes met mine. "Whether as a soldier or a leader—we’re no match for you."

  They didn’t send me on those missions because I volunteered. They were suicide runs. Death sentences wrapped in orders, a convenient way to get rid of me. But I pulled through. Me and my men. Every damn time. And when that didn’t kill me—when it made me a hero instead—they buried me in desk duty. The major’s words lingered in my mind. Was it all worth it? I never got promoted. My wife cheated on me. And now, here I was, chasing ghosts in the dark. I pushed the thoughts away. No point dwelling on the past.

  Instead, I smirked. "Keep praising me like that, and I’ll kiss you." The major groaned. "Come on, man, I’m serious." "I’ll use my tongue if you want." "Fuck you, you disgusting shitbag," he muttered, laughing. Then I saw it—the quartermaster’s car pulling out of the armory. The humor disappeared. "Start the car. We’re live."

  We followed him for quite a while—out of the base and into town. Eventually, he pulled up outside a small bar, its neon sign flickering dimly in the night. He stepped out of his car and went inside. We parked in the lot of a convenience store across the street. "Go grab some snacks," I told the major. He frowned. "Why?" "Just do it." Grumbling, he went inside. A few minutes later, he came back with a bag of chips and an energy drink. "Alright, happy now? Where's our guy?" I took a sip of my coffee, eyes still on the bar. "Gone. Left a while ago." His head snapped toward me. "What the fuck?! And you didn’t think to call me?!" His voice was a mix of shock and frustration. I waved him off. "Relax. The exchange already happened." "The fuck do you mean?" he asked, eyes narrowing. I smirked. "I did my homework." He crossed his arms, waiting. "First, our quartermaster always drinks at the pub near base. Not here. Second, he wasn’t in there long enough for a drink. No way he stopped here for a casual pint." The major exhaled, running a hand down his face. "Alright, genius, so what now?" I raised my binoculars and scanned the people leaving the bar "We look for someone who didn’t even touch a glass of water in there." A few minutes passed. Then,

  "Bingo," I muttered as two men stepped out. Jeans, t-shirts, completely sober. No hesitation in their movements—just a quiet urgency. They slid into a beat-up sedan and pulled away from the curb. "That’s our guys," I said, lowering my binoculars. The major clicked his tongue. "Great. Because tailing people in the dead of night never ends badly.” I gave him a grin. "Relax. What’s the worst that could happen?" He sighed, shaking his head as he started the car. "You just had to say it, didn’t you?"

  He started the car and we followed.