Deliberate Deception

By Joe Porrazzo

***** NEW RELEASE *****

Following the award-winning mystery thriller, SOLEMNLY SWEAR... Alex Porter is back...and the stakes just got higher!

A greedy corporation rigs a multi-million dollar raffle—creating false hopes for ticket buyers—but they aren’t winning, they’re dying. What comes next will shock the world!

DELIBERATE DECEPTION heralds the return of Alex Porter; retired Air Force OSI agent turned private investigator, in Joe Porrazzo’s most powerful suspense thriller yet. Seven months after leaving New England, Alex, still grieving the tragic deaths of his wife and daughter, gets an urgent call from his friend, Joe Prater. A friend has gone missing from his home in Tucson, and Alex agrees to check it out.

HEADLINE NEWS: Tragedy in Tucson

While investigating, Alex gets too close to the truth and becomes a target himself. He finds himself teamed with the very person hired to kill him, as they race against the clock to prevent a mysterious group from striking in Tucson and shocking the world. Don’t miss the nonstop action; the deception is deliberate...and the results are deadly!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Porrazzo
• Release date: Nov 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780692157114

Joe Porrazzo

Joe Porrazzo is a retired U.S. Air Force officer and currently works for the Department of Defense. He earned his bachelor’s degree from Southern New Hampshire University and a master’s degree from Central Michigan University. A native New Englander, Porrazzo now lives in Tucson, Arizona. Visit his website at JoePorrazzo.com

Book preview

Prologue

Tucson, Arizona

December 13, 2010

Monday, 9:20 a.m.

---

Damn it, Beede, this better be important! the executive barked as he tossed the report he’d been scanning onto his custom-made desk.

From the outer office, Steve Woods’ secretary scurried up to the open office door. While addressing her boss, she glared at Beede with disdain. Sir, I’m sorry, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. She shifted her fearful eyes, hesitantly meeting those of her angry boss.

Woods raised his hand to silence his secretary and wave her off. He glared at Beede, who was standing awkwardly in the doorway. Without as much as a glance at his six subordinates seated around the large conference table, Woods said, folks, let’s reconvene after lunch. As the employees skittered out of the plush suite, Woods ordered his executive officer to stay. Les Goodman obliged with a slight nod and sat back down.

Woods pointed at the door, which Beede quickly closed before turning to face the two men.

Sir, I wouldn’t even think about bothering you if this matter wasn’t so important, Caleb Beede said. Stealing a glance at the state-of-the-art and stylishly designed surroundings, he wondered why he had ever thought this intrusion was a good idea. He had never been in here before, and he certainly knew better than to show up unannounced at the office of the senior executive vice president and chief financial officer. Junior associates in the computer analysis department did not routinely circumvent four levels of the chain-of-command, not if they wanted to remain part of the organization. However, this was big, and his instructions had been to report any problems on the project directly to the CFO or his executive officer.

But... Woods, his cheeks flushed, plopped into his chair behind the desk. He folded his arms across his chest and glared at Beede.

Beede took the cue. Sir, I created that webpage like you asked, but there was a problem.

What kind of a problem?

Beede licked his lips and played with the tip of his tie, which sat three inches above his belt buckle. Well, I, ah, might have accidentally uploaded the file to...to the server.

Woods turned and locked eyes with Goodman, who quickly stood.

The clock on the desk noisily ticked away the seconds, taunting Beede.

The CFO slowly turned back to the young analyst.

"Exactly what are you saying? Are you telling me that you posted a draft page to the company’s live website?"

Beede involuntarily took a step back. Yes…sir, he stammered. But, I, I removed it as soon as I realized what had happened.

Goodman interrupted before the CFO could erupt. Caleb, how long was the draft live?

Beede drew a shaky breath. Six hours, perhaps fewer.

Woods leaped from his chair and stepped toward Beede, but Goodman was faster and jumped between the two men.

Okay, Caleb, said Goodman. Obviously, that was a huge mistake. Have you run an analysis on the situation?

Yes, sir, I worked on it all weekend. I know exactly who accessed the page and when. I don’t think it will be a problem.

Les Goodman cringed.

You idiot, Woods said. I’m just hearing about this now? Having returned to his desk, he leaned on it with white-knuckled fists. This could put the three of us behind bars for twenty years! How’s that for a problem?

Before Beede could respond, Goodman voiced a disturbing thought. Can you tell how many people accessed the site?

Beads of sweat were forming on Beede’s forehead and upper lip. He had expected the question and hesitated slightly before responding.

Five people accessed the draft page. Once only, and I did some checking, they all live here in Southern Arizona.

Woods crossed his arms again and stared at Beede, daring him to continue.

When he did not, Goodman took up the reins. How do you know they didn’t download the page? Worse, how do you know that they didn’t forward it to someone?

Beede stood a little straighter. He was glad he’d been thorough. The long hours of overtime this weekend had been worth it.

I checked and double checked, to make sure it was just five people. I even traced their IP addresses. Beede caught Woods’ disapproving glare. The CFO did not understand this technical speak; he didn’t have to, it was what he paid Beede for. I mean, their locations through their internet providers, Beede elaborated. Then I went a step further and uploaded spyware on their systems. He looked at Woods for approval but came up empty. I also have a buddy at the telephone company and he confirmed that none of them have landlines; so, I hacked into their cell phones. I know more about them and their families than they do. I also hacked into their email accounts. I’m tracking their incoming and outgoing email in real-time, as well as their internet traffic patterns. Beede smiled. I can view every website they visit, how long they stay, and what they search for. One of them tried to access the page again but I had already taken it down. There was minimal social media chatter, but what did get out there had no response. None of them pursued it beyond that. I can assure you those five people probably didn’t even realize what they saw, and they’ve probably already forgotten about it.

That’s not good enough, said Woods uncharacteristically calm given the circumstances.

Excuse me? said Beede.

Woods addressed Goodman.

I can’t have five witnesses wandering around out there. Any one of them could destroy everything we have accomplished. There’s too much riding on this project.

What do you mean? Beede was dumbfounded, his throat bone-dry. He thought he knew exactly what Woods meant, but the words would not compute in his brain.

Goodman put his hand on Beede’s shoulder and guided him to the door.

Caleb, let me have a word with Mr. Woods. Why don’t you go back to your office and put together a report?

Yes, okay. Beede hesitated, then turned around, nervously raising a finger but not making eye contact. We knew this was wrong. I should have never agreed to be a part of this!

As Goodman closed the door, Beede’s foot stopped it. This is…is it, he stuttered, this is as far…as far as I go. I refuse to be a part of anything else illegal. If that means jail time...

Goodman used his foot to edge Beede’s out of the way. The door closed with a quiet click.

Beede stood staring at the closed door, inches from his face.

That fucking chicken shit! boomed the CFO’s voice from inside the office. He’s been overpaid for his part in this, how dare he get self-righteous now!

Beede turned and scurried away.

Steve Woods slumped in his oversized leather executive chair and released an aggravated sigh. His heart raced as he reflected on Beede’s comment about jail time. Prison was the least of their worries if this thing spiraled out of control. If the Phoenix caught wind of this, their lives wouldn’t be worth a damn.

He glanced at Goodman.

Les shrugged, implying once again what he had told his boss on more than one occasion. Beede is a weasel, but we need his technical expertise on this project. The last thing Woods wanted now was an I told you so. Les knew the man well enough to know he did not suffer fools gladly.

What do we do now? Woods asked.

We wait. Les saw his boss scowl at the suggestion. We give it a little time and if, say after a week, those people don’t kick up a fuss…we can assume they’ve forgotten about the incident and won’t cause problems. The alternative is killing five people, which would bring a high risk of exposure.

It’s too late for that, someone has to have talked.

There’s no proof of that, said Les. Beede was smart enough to trace their every move. We would know if any of the five people had contacted the authorities. C’mon boss, Beede screwed up, but a stupid mistake doesn’t have to be a fatal one.

Woods didn’t hesitate. We’ve come too far and have too many investors depending on us. Do you know what the Phoenix would do to us if the plan were compromised, before it even got off the ground? Trust me; we don’t want to piss him off. Failure is not an option, not if we want to survive this. Six people are acceptable collateral damage.

Six? Les asked.

Beede, Woods said. You just saw, he doesn’t have the stomach for this, he’s a loose cannon.

Les shook his head. I disagree, boss, I think it would be a big mistake on our part.

Woods studied Goodman’s face for a moment, then motioned for his underling to leave his office. Get hold of Diggs and get this mess cleaned up. Fast.

Les rose slowly and headed for the door.

It will be taken care of.

And Les, Woods called out. Tell Diggs I want all the evidence destroyed, and to make sure the hits look like accidents.

Flagstaff, Arizona

December 14, 2010

Tuesday, 1:45 p.m.

---

It would all be over in less than a minute.

Pat De Tota had no idea. Her killer, however, knew it was just a matter of time, and opportunity. Pat, frantic, plowed her way through the crowded sidewalk, her mind racing as she replayed the phone call she’d received just minutes before. What had happened at her daughter’s day care center? A chill had run down her spine when she’d heard the agitated caller, whose voice she didn’t recognize, tell her that she should ‘come immediately.’ She’d slammed the phone down, grabbed her purse, and glanced toward the rear of the travel agency where her boss and a coworker sat talking with clients. No, not enough time to explain now. Pat darted out the front door and turned left on the sidewalk toward the nearest crosswalk, barely noticing the tall, muscular man who stepped out of the alley.

Thankfully, Pat had driven her own car into town; call it a mother’s intuition, but something had compelled her to avoid the bus this morning. She hated the city bus, it took longer, it was always crowded, and it smelled of stale body odor masked by cheap perfumes and colognes. It was, however, more convenient and cheaper, considering traffic, parking and the outrageous gas prices. Nevertheless, today she had her own car in the parking garage across the street.

A light drizzle began to fall as Pat reached the crowded street corner. The traffic light was green. C’mon, c’mon, she said impatiently, making her way to the curb. The early afternoon downtown traffic zipped by as Pat impatiently inched forward. Suddenly, the curved handle of a black umbrella caught her right ankle, causing her to stumble awkwardly off the sidewalk and into the street.

Pat never even saw the twenty-ton city bus.

Glendale, Arizona

December 14, 2010

Tuesday, 6:50 p.m.

---

Tito Rojas looked down from his sixth-floor apartment terrace, scanning the street below. Despite the run-down and rough neighborhood, he liked the coziness of the low-income studio apartment, and it was a short walk to work.

A familiar feeling of fear and loneliness crept in as he sipped a bottle of Corona Light, morosely contemplating his life up to now. Another year had gone by without any decent job prospects. Tito wanted more than what his late-night short-order cook job at the 24-hour diner offered. He leaned forward and peered over the railing once more at the inviting black pavement below.

It is never too late to go back to school, he thought, not for the first time.

The vibrating cell phone in his pants pocket brought him out of his trance. Hello?

Hi baby, have you eaten yet?

Tito half-smiled. He and Paulina had been dating for two years, and she had a way of always brightening his mood. Temporarily anyway, then he would agonize that he had nothing to offer her in the way of a future. He glanced down at his small table, where a paper plate sat holding a half-eaten pepperoni Hot Pocket.

Not really, baby. I’m not very hungry.

Hey, hey, what’s with this ‘not very hungry’ crap? It’s your birthday, you big dummy. I’m two blocks away and I’m bringing you a surprise dinner, and I picked up your favorite ice cream cake to help cheer you up. I’ll be right there.

Tito could hear the love and happiness in her tone. "Okay Amorcito, gracias, I’ll see you soon." He put the cell back in his pocket. Maybe life wasn’t that bad after all. Finishing his beer, he grabbed another from the well-used mini-fridge he kept out on the terrace.

Tito heard a noise behind him. As he turned toward the apartment, he felt a hand on his upper back. Seconds later, he was freefalling, arms and legs flailing helplessly. Six floors below, a car alarm on a Honda Civic blasted out an ear-splitting shriek into the quiet night as Tito crashed through its windshield.

Mesa, Arizona

December 15, 2010

Wednesday, 4:50 p.m.

---

For the tenth time in the last two minutes, Michael Bauer peered over his cubicle partition and up at the wall clock. He was usually the last one out of the office but today was a special day and he needed to sneak out a few minutes early.

Hot date, Michael? Peter Tully looked up from his desk, visibly amused by his coworker’s uncharacteristic clock-watching.

Yeah, tonight’s the night. Michael shut down his computer and locked his file drawer. He pulled a jewelry box out of his shirt pocket and opened it to show Peter.

Holy crap! Peter said. He mockingly shielded his eyes from the imaginary glare from the large diamond ring. Did you rob a bank or something?

Michael laughed. No, but keep your voice down, will ya? I’ve been saving for over a year but had to keep it quiet. I couldn’t take any chances that Brittany would find out, since she works downstairs. Michael snapped the box shut. Gotta run, she’s waiting in the lobby and thinks we’re going across the street to O’Malley’s for happy hour.

It will definitely be a happy hour for her.

Michael scurried to the elevators and pushed the down button. As he waited, he clutched the jewelry box and silently rehearsed his marriage proposal. The blinking green down arrow and accompanying ding sped up his already racing heart. There was no turning back now.

The doors opened and just as he was about to step into the elevator he realized in horror that the car was not there. He pulled his foot back quickly and peered down into the dark shaft. That was close!

Then he felt a hand on his back. Before he could grab the doorframe to save himself, he was plummeting down the elevator shaft toward the lobby, four floors down. The last thing he felt was the jewelry box slip from his hand.

Tucson, Arizona

December 16, 2010

Thursday, 1:55 p.m.

---

The man from Apartment 102 adjusted his Safeway grocery bags as he reached into his trouser pocket for the door key. As he passed the in-ground swimming pool, he glimpsed an object floating in the water. It was odd, as the pool was rarely used this time of year. Pulling the keys from his pocket, he let the grocery bags fall to the ground. Frozen dinners littered the pool area and cans of Red Bull rolled onto the deck and into the water. The man yelled for someone to call 9-1-1 as he knelt at the edge and reached down into the pool to help his next-door neighbor.

Tina Redding was floating face-down in the water, her body barely beneath the surface. Her auburn hair shimmered and swirled. He pulled her out and laid her gently on the pool’s deck. Turning her over, he brushed back wet strands of hair from her face. She’d been dead for a while. Her normally beautiful features were masked in horror and the slightly bloated skin around her open eyes had turned a yellowish rust color. The neighbor was now on autopilot, trying desperately to revive Tina Redding as he clumsily mimicked CPR techniques he’d seen on television. The fact that he wasn’t any good at it didn’t matter. Tina’s lips and nail beds were pale and bluish and her skin was now gray. He screamed for help once again, as he heard the sirens in the distance. This was the closest he’d ever been to death. He gazed into Tina’s dead eyes and a strange calmness washed over him. He decided he would ride with Tina to the hospital. There was nothing else he could do for her now, except to ensure she wasn’t alone.

Tucson, Arizona

December 16, 2010

Thursday, 10:05 p.m.

---

Caleb Beede finished packing and turned on the KGUN9 ten o’clock news. He grabbed another donut from the Dunkin’ Donuts box, ignoring the doctor’s warnings about his high blood pressure and high cholesterol count. The way things were going he didn’t think he’d be around long enough to die from coronary heart disease. Beede waited for the news anchor to repeat the latest murder story, though no one else knew it was murder, yet. The authorities in Flagstaff, Glendale and Mesa, and now in Tucson, had no reason to link the four recent deaths, nor did they suspect foul play. So far, they were just a series of unfortunate tragedies. Only Beede knew the truth.

Correction, at least two other people knew as well. Steve Woods and Les Goodman had both lied to him. They wouldn’t stop now until all five people were dead. He’d tried to warn some of them to keep their mouths shut, but it was still his screw-up that had got those people killed.

After recognizing the names of the first two victims on Wednesday morning’s newscast, Beede had gone online and purchased a one-way airline ticket to São Paulo in Brazil. His work on the fake raffle was complete; he was now probably a target himself.

No, not probably…Beede knew his days were numbered when Les Goodman had appeared at his cubicle after the disastrous meeting with Woods.

What the hell, Caleb, Goodman had said. Why didn’t you come to me immediately? You know bad news doesn’t get better with time.

Beede had looked down at his notes on the five people who’d accessed the bogus webpage. I thought I could handle it, he told Goodman, but there is something I was afraid to tell Mr. Woods.

What’s that?

One of the five, a Dave Canton, he may be a threat. Beede didn’t bother to add that he’d made contact with Canton. He may have downloaded the page when he initially accessed it, but I haven’t seen any electronic actions since.

Great, said Les. What if he sent it to someone?

No way, I would have noticed.

Les stared at him as if he were an unruly child. You don’t think he could have mailed it off to the authorities, if he didn’t trust email?

Snail mail? said Beede. I didn’t consider that. You have to stop him—I can’t go to prison, I can’t.

Shaking his head, Les Goodman had just walked away.

Beede checked his bedroom clock. He grabbed his airline ticket, passport and visa, and the USB flash drives he’d taken from work, containing the information he’d compiled on the victims. He shoved all of these items into a dark green carry-on bag. The incriminating evidence might be worth something later.

Beede needed to hurry if he was going to make the red-eye flight to Houston, although it would take less than an hour to get to Tucson International Airport and to get through security. Oblivious to the surveillance cameras hidden in two of the vents of his one-bedroom apartment, Beede, his heart racing, made his way to the front door.

As he opened it, and bent down to pick up his suitcase, a gloved hand grabbed his wrist and twisted him around, jamming his face into the doorframe. His chest hurt from the pressure being applied to his back. Beede tried to turn to the side so he could breathe. He felt sudden sharp pains in his chest. The agony was immense. Then, he felt the sharp stab of a needle in his neck. His heart pounded in his chest, and he realized that within minutes he’d suffer a lethal heart attack, likely induced by an untraceable drug. Hadn’t he seen something like this on a CSI episode? This can’t be happening!

Beede slumped to the floor. Before closing his eyes for the last time, he watched his green carry-on bag swing alongside his killer’s Saucony running shoes.

Tucson, Arizona

December 17, 2010

Friday, 2:30 p.m.

---

Dave Canton chose a name in his contact list as he surveyed his living room. It looked like a tornado had just passed through. The windows were open and a light breeze made the thin blinds flutter.

Those bastards!

The long-distance number rang six times. It was three hours later in Massachusetts; maybe he was gone for the day.

Prater Law Office, this is Betty Ann, how may I help you?

Dave cleared his throat.

Joe Prater, please.

May I tell him who is calling?

Dave Canton.

Thank you, I’ll see if Mr. Prater is available to take your call.

The elevator music had barely begun when Prater came on the line.

Dave?

Canton grinned. It had been five years since he had heard that voice. Yeah, Joe, it’s me.

How the hell are you? Are you still living in Phoenix?

No, I’m in Tucson now. It’s a little cooler here. And I like the VA hospital better, which is good, seeing as how I practically live there. Canton knew he was rambling and should get to the point. Listen, Joe, I need your help.

You got it. What’s going on?

Canton hesitated. I can’t tell you on the phone.

Want me to fly out?

No hesitation at all. Army Rangers for life.

No. Listen, Joe, I really don’t know why I called. I don’t need a lawyer, at least not yet.

I don’t like the sound of this, Dave.

Canton peered out his living room window but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Cars moved along the avenue, pedestrians walked by, just your average day.

Joe, someone ransacked my house, and I have a feeling they’ll be back.

A moment of silence as Joe processed Dave’s words. Are you okay? What did they take? I’m coming out.

No! Canton didn’t mean to raise his voice. He knew his friend would help, and he could trust Joe completely. I’m fine, and as far as I can tell nothing is missing. Listen, I need you there, do you still have the same email address?

Yes.

I may have seen something I wasn’t supposed to. That’s all I can say for now. I’m going to send you an email with some of the information, but I don’t want to get the authorities involved yet.

Canton could picture Prater processing the words, and more feelings of guilt hit. It must feel like déjà vu, as Joe had helped a friend through a harrowing experience just months before.

Could this get you hurt, or killed? Joe asked.

Canton heard Joe’s tension. Yeah, maybe, I mean…it’s possible.

Then call the cops.

Joe, I’m freakin’ Special Ops, remember? I can take care of myself.

Of course I remember. You saved my life, you stubborn bastard.

Canton managed a dry laugh. I’m emailing you some information…if anything happens to me, get the authorities involved, okay? And tell my ex, the rest of my Army pension is hers.

Dave, slow down. Tell me what the hell’s going on!

I don’t know, yet. I know I sound like a little school girl with all the melodrama, but I have to check out some things first, before I can prove anything. Joe, you’re one of only two people I can trust.

Copy that, Sergeant ‘Can Do’ Canton, Joe sighed, but we do this by the numbers. If I don’t hear from you within forty-eight hours, the rules of engagement change.

Fair enough, pal. Hooah, he said.

As he hung up the phone, Canton felt a familiar pain viciously attack his right shoulder. Over twelve years in Phoenix, the dry desert heat of Southern Arizona had slightly helped ease his military disability. Now in Tucson, the old Army wound made life a living hell, most days. He cursed the military doctors who’d failed to get all of the shrapnel out. But, the VA doctor had changed his meds, and the new ones seemed to be helping more with the chronic pain.

Canton flipped open his laptop and hastily tapped out a few brief lines before adding Joe Prater’s and another buddy’s email addresses from his contact list. His hand hovered over the send button. He knew this email would only serve to confuse his two friends. In any case, he had to be careful with his accusations but at least it would give them some information in order to put the pieces together should something happen. And something was going to happen, he could feel it.

Canton had hesitated before deciding to call and get Joe involved in this, but the break-in had changed his perspective, and now he feared for his safety. It had to be related to what he’d seen online. What else could it be? They must be looking for the page I downloaded and printed, but how could they know I did that? He clicked the send button and let out a full breath. His ears perked up at an unidentifiable sound. He waited, listened…nothing. He removed a revolver from his desk drawer and put it in his back waistband.

Canton knew he could handle any threats on his life. If only his aches and pains would give him a break. He headed to the kitchen for his medication. As he walked through the doorway, a strong and distinct odor of gas engulfed him. He had just enough time to think, Oh shit, before the explosion sent him flying backward into the living room. Canton lost consciousness as he careened head-first into the brick fireplace.

Part I

False Hopes

People aren’t winning, they’re dying.

—Alex Porter

Chapter 1

Tucson, Arizona

December 20, 2010

Monday, 6:30 a.m.

---

The tall man in the dark blue overalls strolled up to the warehouse of Freeman Business Interiors. For anybody taking notice, it was just another work day for the seasoned furniture installer. He was in his mid-forties and his journey through the parking lot was hastened by the long strides of his lean six-foot, one-inch frame. The stranger looked like he belonged, and any potential witness would recall his only memorable features to be a salt-and-pepper mustache and black-framed glasses. It was an effective disguise. The patch on the front of the borrowed overalls reflected the name of the company. Directly below, in red letters in a white oval patch, was the name Nick.

Freeman Business Interiors, one of the largest wholesale office furniture dealers in the Southwest, with multimillion-dollar private and government contracts, generated a gross annual revenue in excess of 6.8 million dollars.

The man in the overalls removed his backpack, careful not to disturb the enclosed explosives, and grabbed an empty, lidded Starbucks coffee cup. He pretended to drink as two employees approached. He offered a friendly nod, and they nodded back as they walked on by.

The man approached a large truck and climbed into the cargo hold. He carefully placed the backpack in a corner and picked up a clipboard off one of the boxes. Scanning the back of the truck, he studied the two rows of E-track, the flat floor, and the slat interior that was approximately half-full with new furniture destined for Doolittle-Mitchell Air Force Base. He spotted the large metal storage cabinet, which he’d identified on the inventory list earlier, standing in the left corner by the truck’s cab. Before he could head over to the cabinet, however, two dock workers approached, each carrying a new office chair.

Hey mister, one of the men yelled out. What ya doing in our truck?

Having conducted numerous reconnoiters over the past week, the man recognized both workers.

Hey, guys, he said with a slight smirk. I got sent over from the warehouse on Ajo.

What’s going on over there? the same man asked.

There was a break-in last night. Looks like it may have been gang activity, lots of vandalism and tagging, the bastards did some serious damage.

The worker shook his head. Damn hooligans. So what do they have you doing?

Management doesn’t know what the hell to do with us. They told me to come down and help double-check the outgoing loads. You’re Sean, right?

Sean nodded his head in acknowledgement, and the two workers grinned at each other.

So, your name is Nick, huh? Sean said as he glanced at the stranger’s nametag. This here is Ryan.

The man nodded.

Ryan commiserated with his new coworker. Cheap bastards. He pointed behind him. It’ll take you days to check off the inventory on these docks.

I don’t think management cares at this point. He noticed Sean’s gaze on him.

I haven’t seen you around, Sean said, and I’ve been with the company over twelve years.

Yeah, I just started last month. He noticed the University of Arizona football logo on Sean’s hat. I’m also a new Wildcats fan, did you guys see who the new football coach is gonna be next season?

Ryan bit first. Yeah, I saw it on the news last night. We may have a chance at a national championship next year.

Doubt that, Sean said. The PAC-12 is gonna be stacked.

The two men finished loading the chairs then they turned to head back into the warehouse, bickering back and forth about the Wildcats’ upcoming season.

The man called out to them.

Hey, take care, I’m gonna head over to the office to clock in.

Sean raised his hand in the air and waved without turning back.

When the men were out of sight, he dropped the clipboard and grabbed his backpack. He unlatched the metal handle on the front of the storage cabinet and opened both doors, slid inside, and closed the doors. He removed a large magnet from one of his pockets and placed it against the metal door, where he calculated the lock would be, managing to align it on his first try. Gliding the magnet up the side of the door, he could hear the latch slowly slide into place, locking him in. The interior was dark and he removed a small flashlight from another pocket, shining it on the holes where the air would be coming from. Within minutes, he could hear Sean and Ryan returning with more office equipment, and more enthusiastic banter.

The truck was fully loaded and moving twenty minutes later, and the man wished he’d thought to bring along some cushions for the hard metal cabinet floor. He was grateful for his light jacket, folding it in half as a makeshift seat cushion. He knew the Air Force base was a forty-minute drive in traffic, so he placed the backpack on his lap and settled in for the ride.

Doolittle-Mitchell Air Force Base honored two military legends, Lieutenant Colonel James ‘Jimmy’ Doolittle and General William ‘Billy’ Mitchell. Regarded as the Father of the United States Air Force, Mitchell was instrumental in declaring the strategic importance of air superiority. Doolittle planned and led the Tokyo Raid on 18 April 1942. The American air attack, consisting of sixteen B-25B Mitchell bombers, served as retaliation for the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941. Currently, the base is home to a myriad of troops, weapon systems and missions that help fight and win America’s wars.

The Swan Gate controlled all commercial delivery and contractor traffic. The drive-thru building ensured all vehicles were subject to an extensive search by military and civilian security personnel. The Department of Defense awarded the contract to KnoxCorp International to provide