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She hadn’t been this far down the corridor since her transfer. Since the tribunal stripped her from the heartbeat of NCIS at the Washington Navy Yard and dropped her here in this dusty cyber forensics’ unit in the middle of Arizona. An analyst graveyard where careers went to die.
Once, she had been a rising star. Now she was a quiet problem no one wanted to deal with.
She left the facility just after sunset, the parking lot half-empty, the sky bleeding out the last of its heat in long orange smears. It was late January, but there was nothing cool about winter here. The still air was a dry slap against her skin. The asphalt radiated heat even after dark, the scent of scorched rubber and dust clinging to the back of her throat.
Grace moved on autopilot, sandals crunching against gravel as she crossed to her car. The steering wheel would be too hot to touch without sleeves. The interior would smell like sun-baked plastic and defeat.
She drove home with the windows cracked, letting the furnace blast of desert air sweep through the hollow spaces inside her.
Her apartment complex sat at the edge of a barren lot, low stucco buildings painted beige so they could blend into the dust. No grass. No trees. Just brittle scrub brush and sagging security lights trying to pretend anyone cared.
She parked in her usual spot. Shut off the engine.
Grace stepped out, the heat pressing against her like a wall, her bag heavy against her shoulder. Her sandals scraped the gritty sidewalk as she crossed toward her building.
Footsteps behind her. She turned, barely, and that was all the opening they needed. A hand clamped over her mouth. Another around her waist. Her feet left the ground for a heartbeat. She surged into fight mode, twisting hard, kicking once but catching only empty air. A sharp breath hissed past her teeth.
Then the hood dropped over her head.
Darkness. Pressure. Disorientation.
The car was already waiting. She heard the door open, felt the tug as they shoved her inside. The vibration of acceleration came a second later, tires crunching over dry gravel, then hitting smooth asphalt.
Her wrists were bound firmly in front.
She inhaled and tasted bleach. Leather. Sterile control.
Grace steadied her breathing, heart hammering but mind already pivoting. She tried to count the turns. Failed. Every shift was controlled, practiced. No sharp corners. No sudden stops. Whoever they were, they knew how to keep a trail cold.
“Who are you? What do you want? Where are you taking me? I’m a federal employee?—”
“Quiet. You’re not in danger.”
“That’s exactly what someone would say if they wanted to keep me quiet,” she said.
No response.
Her heart thudded against her ribs, steady. Fast. Alert.
The car slowed. Stopped. A hand on her elbow, guiding her forward. Then the air shifted again, cool, recycled, faintly metallic.
A door opened. Closed behind her. Then hands pulled the hood off, and Grace blinked against the sudden light, adjusting fast. Windowless room. Concrete walls painted off-white. A metal table. Two chairs. A file folder.
A woman stood at the window, sleeves cuffed, her pale blouse rolled just enough to reveal the faint imprint of a wristwatch no longer there. She looked like someone who had spent years in the field and never really left it. Her hair was short, efficient, gunmetal gray streaked with white. Not soft. Not approachable. She had the aura of someone who’d been disappointed professionally one too many times and had turned it into a permanent posture.
Grace didn’t speak. Just waited.
The woman turned, eyes sharp behind rimless glasses. “You’re still running analyses, Grace,” she said. “Even after the tribunal. Quiet. Focused. I respect that.”
“You have me at a disadvantage. Not a fan of that.” Something flared in her, a lick of anger she hadn’t felt since the tribunal. Whatever happened here, she couldn’t let it ride.
“You can call me Ma’am.” She eyed the file on the table, fingers tapping once on the manila edge.
Grace kept her voice neutral. “You’re not in my oversight chain.” Her brow lifted. “CIA?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Ma’am slid the file across to Grace. “We’ve got a problem. OrdoTech Strategies.”
Grace knew them, an adaptive drone and AI systems integration defense contractor.