Page 2 of Code Name: Tank (K19 Sentinel Cyber #4)

DRAGON

S eeing James Hartwell again brought a welcome mix of gratitude and relief.

When my career had seemed uncertain and few people were willing to vouch for me, he’d come to my defense.

His presence today and his request for my involvement reminded me that not everyone in positions of power abandoned people when things got complicated.

Three years ago, when a joint CIA operation in Prague went sideways and my partner chose to save himself rather than stand by me, Hartwell had been my strongest advocate during the congressional oversight committee hearing.

He’d served alongside my father during their CIA days and had been his partner on several classified ops before Dad was killed in the line of duty when I was fifteen.

“Your father always said you had his analytical mind and your mother’s stubborn streak,” Hartwell had told me after that brutal hearing.

“He’d be proud of the agent you’ve become.

” Without his support after I was left to face Internal Affairs alone, I’d probably be working for private-sector cybersecurity instead of one of the most highly respected firms in the intelligence community.

His behavior during today’s briefing had seemed off, though. The way he’d insisted all communications go through him, his reluctance to speculate about perpetrators—it felt more controlled than his usual straightforward approach with me.

As I was walking out of the command center, trying to shake off my concerns about Hartwell’s strange behavior, Alice caught my eye. “How are you feeling?” I asked.

“I’ll be fine. I’m just pregnant, for God’s sake. Admiral acts like I’m going to spontaneously combust if he isn’t constantly hovering.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. Maybe send a fake email saying he’s needed in DC first thing tomorrow?”

She chuckled. “Thanks, but he’d only make me go with him.”

After we said good night, I spent the evening preparing for the assignment—reviewing Titan Defense’s corporate structure, studying their defense contracts, and trying not to think about spending extended time working closely with Tank.

My go bag had been packed and repacked twice, a nervous habit I thought I’d outgrown.

Sleep came fitfully, and by zero five thirty, I gave up, grabbed coffee and my gear bag, then headed to the helipad.

It sat in a cleared meadow between the main residence and the gates of the compound, the morning mist drifting across the Adirondack landscape.

As I approached, I was surprised to see Tank was already waiting with his gear bag.

“Morning,” he said, his breath visible in the crisp September air. “Ready for this?”

“Now, I am,” I said, holding up my coffee.

A few minutes later, K19’s transport helicopter touched down at zero six hundred. The pilot waved us over as we grabbed our gear.

“The flight to the private airfield near JFK will take about two hours, putting us on the ground by zero eight hundred, with plenty of time to catch your westbound flight,” he said after we’d buckled ourselves in and put on our headsets.

Two hours later, we touched down. The rotors were still spinning when Tank and I ducked under them and jogged toward the terminal.

Our jet stood waiting on the tarmac, fueled and ready, which meant we’d be airborne within the hour.

No delays. No buffers. No excuses to postpone five hours alone with Tank at thirty thousand feet.

I chose a seat near the window, appreciating the spacious cabin layout that K19’s corporate aircraft provided.

Tank positioned himself across the aisle, close enough for conversation, but maintaining the distance I’d anticipated he would.

He immediately pulled out his tablet and began preparing for our visit to Titan Defense with the systematic approach I’d observed during briefings.

His work style drew my attention despite my best efforts to ignore him. He was completely absorbed, the lines around his mouth tightening when he found anything troubling in the data, yet still aware of his surroundings.

The flight attendant approached as we reached cruising altitude. “Coffee for both of you? We have Colombian dark roast and French vanilla light available.”

“Colombian, black,” Tank said without looking up.

“Same, but with cream, please.”

Once she’d gone to the galley, I tried concentrating on the Titan intel I’d loaded on my tablet.

Rather than focusing on my report, my attention kept drifting to Tank—watching the way he made notes in document margins, occasionally shaking his head at troubling data.

I’d worked with plenty of experienced analysts, but his quiet intensity was one of the things that drew me to him when we first met and again now.

“Should we plan our approach before landing?” Tank asked.

I glanced up and checked the time, realizing two hours had already passed. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’ll handle the executive interviews while you examine the financial systems.”

“That works. How long do you need with their staff?”

“Couple hours, maybe more if I find inconsistencies in their stories.” He made notes on his tablet. “What about you?”

“Depends what I find. Simple fund diversion, maybe a few hours. If we’re dealing with something more complex, this could take considerably longer to trace.”

“Days?” he asked.

“Doubtful. Why?”

“I have to ask—are you planning to maintain this level of formality for the duration of the assignment? Because working together effectively will require more than we’ve managed so far.”

“What do you mean?”

He set his tablet down and faced me fully.

“Dragon, in the year you’ve been with K19, we’ve exchanged maybe fifty words unrelated to immediate operational necessity.

You specifically take on tasks that don’t involve me, sit at the opposite end of the conference table during meetings, and if you walk into the kitchen and I’m there, you turn around and leave. ”

Heat flooded my cheeks as I realized how obvious my avoidance had been. “I learned the hard way that mixing work and anything beyond the job leads to problems.”

“I respect that. But we’re about to delve into a potential national security threat, and doing our job right requires trust. If you can’t trust me enough for normal conversation, how do we manage an investigation?”

His statement forced me to confront the real reason I’d been avoiding Tank Abrams. It wasn’t just about maintaining my distance.

Every time I looked at him, I remembered how getting involved with a colleague had come close to destroying my career and left me with scars that still disrupted my sleep.

Cory “Flint” Pierce had been my partner and lover. When our mission went sideways, he chose saving himself over standing by me, disappearing into federal witness protection without warning.

Tank embodied everything that man had pretended to be—talented, reliable, steady. Which made him more dangerous, not less.

“You’re right,” I said finally. “I’ll work on better communication.”

“Good.” His manner softened. “I’m not asking you to change your methodologies. I just need to know we can work together effectively.”

I nodded, then returned to studying my files. When I first met Tank, I’d expected another military-to-private-sector type focused more on tactics than strategy. Instead, he had demonstrated sharp thinking that impressed me despite my determination to maintain my distance.

And that was the problem. Tank wasn’t just appealing in obvious ways—his imposing presence and calm competence. He was intellectually engaging and decent enough to respect my limits without making me feel like a challenge to overcome.

The black SUV that had been waiting for us on the tarmac pulled up to Titan Defense’s El Segundo facility at fourteen hundred hours.

The afternoon sun reflected off the glass-and-steel structure that housed some of America’s most critical weapons manufacturing.

As we parked, I took note of the security cameras, access points, and potential vulnerabilities.

“Impressive setup,” Tank observed, studying the building. “Looks like they take physical security seriously.”

“Physical security is only as strong as financial security,” I replied, noting how the observation platforms and restricted parking indicated typical government-contractor protocols. “If someone’s compromised their funding, no number of guards or cameras will matter.”

We approached the main entrance, where a security checkpoint required appropriate ID and escort clearance. The guard examined our credentials, then handed them back to us.

“You’re both expected. Dr. David Lopez, our director of operations, will meet you inside.”

The main lobby spoke of serious government contracting—polished but functional, with subtle displays showcasing the company’s defense capabilities without revealing classified details.

Dr. Lopez—a man in his forties with the expression of someone managing a crisis beyond his experience—emerged from an elevator bank.

“Thank you both for coming on such short notice.” He shook hands with both of us. “Our production delays have reached critical levels, and we’re facing significant contract penalties if we can’t resolve this quickly.”

“Dr. Lopez, before we begin, can you walk us through exactly what happened?” Tank asked as we returned to the elevator and rode up to the third floor.

“Our CFO discovered the irregularities during a routine quarterly review,” said Dr. Lopez, pulling up account statements. “The authorizations looked legitimate, but we never initiated these transfers.”

I began examining the transaction records. The sequence struck me as odd—small amounts, each one under fifty thousand dollars, occurring every few days during normal business hours. Most theft attempts I’d seen happened at night or on weekends, when fewer people were monitoring the systems.