The first thing Dr. Harper Ror asked me wasn't what I had seen.
It was whether I had eaten.
That confused me more than anything that had happened in the woods.
Adults usually wanted information first.
Names.
Dates.
Reasons.
Harper looked at the oversized Army blanket wrapped around my shoulders, the mud on my jeans and the way I kept glancing toward every exit.
"When did you last eat?"
"Yesterday."
"What did you eat?"
I shrugged.
That apparently answered the question.
She turned to a security officer.
"Get him something warm."
Miles started to speak.
Harper cut him off.
"I know he's a witness, Colonel. He's also twelve."
Nobody had said my age out loud since arriving.
I wondered how she'd known.
Maybe I looked twelve.
Maybe I looked younger.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting at a kitchen table with scrambled eggs, toast, potatoes and orange juice in front of me.
I ate too fast.
Halfway through the second piece of toast, I noticed Miles watching.
"You think I'm lying?" I asked.
"No."
"Then why are you staring at me?"
"Because most twelve-year-olds don't throw rocks at professional kidnappers."
I stopped chewing.
"Were they professional?"
Miles's eyes shifted toward the door.
"Eat."
That meant yes.
Outside the room, the residence had transformed.
Uniformed personnel moved through hallways.
Phones rang.
Doors opened and closed.
Nobody raised their voice.
That almost made the atmosphere worse.
Silas had regained consciousness, but doctors weren't letting anyone question him.
Harper spent several minutes beside him before returning.
She sat across from me.
"I'm Harper."
"I know."
One corner of her mouth lifted.
"Of course you do."
"You're a doctor."
"I'm a trauma surgeon."
"Is he going to live?"
Her eyes softened.
"Yes."
The word hit me so hard I stared down at my plate.
I hadn't realized how afraid I was of hearing the opposite.
Harper noticed.
"You saved his life."
"I just dragged him."
"You did considerably more than that."
Miles entered and closed the door.
"We have a problem."
Harper straightened.
"How large?"
"The official transportation log says General Ror departed with his usual detail at 0430."
"But he didn't."
"No."
"Then someone altered the log."
"Yes."
"What about surveillance?"
"Fourteen minutes of footage are missing."
Harper's face went cold.
"From a secured Army installation?"
Miles nodded.
I looked between them.
"You think a soldier did it?"
Neither answered.
Which answered me.
Miles pulled out a chair.
"Noah, I need you to tell us everything again."
So I did.
The vehicle.
The two men.
The grave.
The sentence about the schedule.
The third footprint.
Then I remembered something.
"The man with the shovel called the other one Warren."
Miles leaned forward.
"You're sure?"
"I think so."
"Exactly what did he say?"
"'Warren, lights.' Something like that."
Harper and Miles exchanged a look.
"What?" I asked.
Miles stood.
"Nothing yet."
He left quickly.
Harper stayed.
"You don't trust him?" I asked.
"I trust Miles with my husband's life."
"Then why'd you look like that?"
"Because sometimes information changes the shape of a problem."
That sounded like something an adult said when the truth was worse than the explanation.
Twenty minutes later, Miles returned with a photograph.
He placed it face down.
"I need you to understand something before you look."
"What?"
"If you recognize the person, don't react loudly."
"Why?"
"Because this house has security personnel from multiple commands."
My stomach dropped.
"You don't know who you can trust."
"We know who we trust," Harper said carefully. "We're less certain about everyone they trust."
Miles turned the photograph over.
A man in Army uniform.
Late thirties.
Clean-cut.
I shook my head.
"No."
Another picture.
No.
Third.
My throat tightened.
The man looked different without mud and a dark jacket.
But the eyes were the same.
"Him."
Miles sat back.
"Warren?"
"I don't know if he's Warren, but he was there."
Harper stared at the picture.
"Captain Warren Voss."
"Who is he?"
Miles answered.
"Transportation liaison assigned to senior command movement planning."
Even I understood.
"He knew the schedule."
"Yes."
"Then arrest him."
Miles gave a humorless smile.
"We'd like to."
"Why can't you?"
"Because Captain Voss reported for duty twenty minutes ago at Fort Liberty."
I stared.
"But he was here."
"Exactly."
Harper leaned forward.
"Someone is building him an alibi."
Miles's phone vibrated.
He read the screen.
His expression hardened.
"What now?" Harper asked.
"The second man may be former Sergeant Owen Kress. Discharged six years ago."
"Connection?"
"Contract security."
"For whom?"
Miles hesitated.
"General Ror's own strategic logistics directorate."
Harper stood.
The pieces were assembling too quickly.
Whoever planned the attack wasn't merely familiar with military procedures.
They were inside Silas's professional world.
A knock sounded.
Miles opened the door.
A major entered.
"Colonel, sir, Military Police investigators have arrived. They want custody of the witness."
Miles didn't respond immediately.
"Which investigators?"
"Orders came through command legal."
Harper's eyes met his.
I stopped eating.
Miles asked, "Who signed the transfer?"
The major handed him a tablet.
Miles read it.
Then looked at me.
"Noah, finish your orange juice."
Nobody had ever frightened me with a sentence about orange juice before.
"What is it?"
Miles turned to the major.
"Tell them the witness is still undergoing medical assessment."
"Sir, they have a direct—"
"That's an order."
The major left.
Harper spoke quietly.
"The signature?"
Miles handed her the tablet.
"Deputy Chief of Staff Edwin Vale."
Harper stared at the name.
"I had dinner with him three nights ago."
"He's known Silas twenty years."
"Which means?"
"Either he's following procedure…"
"Or somebody very senior wants the boy moved."
I pushed my chair back.
"I'm leaving."
Miles blocked the door.
"No."
"I was fine before you people found me."
"You weren't fine."
"I was alive."
That stopped him.
I stood.
"You keep saying I'm safer here. But somebody inside the Army tried to bury a general. Maybe the woods are safer."
Miles crouched so we were closer to eye level.
"I won't lie to you. You're in danger."
Harper shot him a look.
He continued.
"But walking out makes you easy to find."
"What am I supposed to do?"
"Stay where I can protect you."
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
"You don't even know who you're protecting me from."
Silence.
Then another knock.
This time Harper opened the door.
A medical officer stood outside.
"Ma'am, General Ror is asking for the boy."
Everyone froze.
Harper looked at me.
"Do you want to see him?"
I wasn't sure.
But ten minutes later, I entered a darkened bedroom where Silas lay surrounded by medical equipment.
He looked different from television.
Smaller somehow.
Human.
His gray eyes opened.
Miles remained near the door.
Harper sat beside the bed.
I stopped several feet away.
Silas raised one hand.
"Closer."
His voice was rough.
I stepped forward.
He studied me for several seconds.
"You're Noah."
"Yes, sir."
"They told me what you did."
I shrugged.
"You should have run."
"I know."
The faintest smile appeared.
"Why didn't you?"
I thought about lying.
"I don't know."
Silas looked at me for a long time.
Then he said, "That's usually what courage sounds like."
I didn't know what to say.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"When they took me… one of them said something."
Miles moved closer.
"What?"
Silas's voice became weaker.
"He said… 'Falcon is grounded.'"
Miles went still.
Harper whispered, "What does that mean?"
Silas opened his eyes.
"Falcon was my classified movement identifier."
"Who knew it?"
Silas looked at Miles.
"Seven people."
Harper's face drained of color.
"Names?"
"Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because whoever did this may be listening."
Silas looked toward me.
Then back at Miles.
"Move the boy."
Miles nodded.
"Already attempted."
Silas frowned.
"By whom?"
"Vale's office."
The general's eyes changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
"Don't let them take him."
A sound came from the hall.
Raised voices.
Miles pulled the door open.
Two military police officers were approaching with a civilian federal agent.
The agent held paperwork.
"Colonel Keane. We're here for Noah Mercer."
Miles stepped into the hallway.
"Under whose authority?"
"Joint investigative command."
Silas called weakly from behind us.
"Miles."
The colonel looked back.
The general spoke slowly.
"Nobody takes that boy."
The federal agent heard him.
"General Ror, respectfully, this witness must be secured."
Silas's eyes locked on him.
"He is secured."
"Sir—"
"That child saved my life while men with access to classified information tried to murder me. Until I know who ordered it, he does not leave my protection."
The agent tightened his jaw.
Miles closed the door.
For the first time since the woods, I felt something almost like safety.
Then my gaze fell toward the window.
A black sedan was parked beyond the outer fence.
A man stood beside it.
Too far away to see clearly.
But I recognized the posture.
Still.
Patient.
Watching.
The third footprint.
I pointed.
"Miles."
He turned.
The figure was already getting into the car.
Miles sprinted for the door.
Security vehicles gave chase.
But the sedan disappeared beyond the trees.
Fifteen minutes later, guards searched the area where the man had stood.
They found no weapon.
No phone.
No identification.
Only a cigarette pressed into the wet ground.
And carved into the wooden fence beside it were three words:
THE BOY IS NEXT.
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