The first thing seventeen-year-old Lila Voss noticed was the red light.
It was blinking above a steel door at the far end of Hangar Nine.
Slow.
Steady.
Wrong.
Every other security light inside the enormous coastal operations facility burned green.
Lila stopped walking.
Rain hammered the metal roof hundreds of feet above her. Somewhere beyond the walls, waves crashed against the concrete breakwater protecting the harbor. The storm had swallowed the city an hour earlier, turning the evening sky black and flooding half the waterfront streets.
She pulled her phone from her jacket and checked the message again.
Mom: I’m stuck in briefing. Your bag is in the command vehicle at Hangar Nine. Grab it and wait inside. Code 4071.
Lila frowned.
Her mother hated texting codes.
Commander Evelyn Voss considered phones “portable witnesses with terrible judgment.”
But tonight was chaos.
Emergency crews were everywhere. Coast Guard helicopters were grounded because of lightning. Trucks had been racing in and out of the compound all afternoon. The storm had already knocked out power in three coastal districts.
Maybe her mother had simply been in a hurry.
Lila approached the hangar.
A matte-gray command vehicle sat beneath the fluorescent lights.
It looked less like a truck than a moving bunker.
Armored doors.
Black windows.
No markings except a small silver emblem near the rear wheel.
Lila knew the vehicle.
Her mother had ridden home in it twice.
She reached the passenger door and entered the code.
Four.
Zero.
Seven.
One.
The lock clicked.
Lila smiled.
“See?” she whispered to herself. “Not committing a felony.”
She opened the door.
A hand seized the back of her jacket.
Lila barely had time to gasp.
She was spun around and slammed chest-first against the side of the vehicle.
Pain exploded through her shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“Hands where I can see them!”
A man forced her right arm behind her back.
Lila cried out.
“Stop! You’re hurting me!”
“Don’t move.”
“I’m not moving!”
The man wore the dark uniform of Harbor Security.
His badge read:
SERGEANT OWEN RUSK
He was broad-shouldered, perhaps forty, with rainwater dripping from his hair.
His left hand pressed between Lila’s shoulder blades.
“You picked the wrong vehicle,” he said.
“It’s my mother’s.”
Rusk laughed.
“Of course it is.”
“I have the code!”
“You watched someone enter it.”
“No!”
“Then how did you get into a restricted hangar?”
“The side gate was open.”
“That gate requires authorization.”
“It was literally open.”
Rusk pushed her harder against the vehicle.
Lila’s cheek touched cold metal.
Her phone fell from her hand and skidded underneath the truck.
“Listen to me,” she said. “My name is Lila Voss.”
Nothing happened.
Then Rusk’s grip changed.
Only slightly.
“You said Voss?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated.
Lila felt it.
“My mother is Commander Evelyn Voss.”
Rusk stared at her.
Then his expression hardened again.
“Nice try.”
“I’m serious.”
“Commander Voss doesn’t have a daughter wandering through secure facilities.”
“She does when her daughter misses the last train because the entire waterfront is underwater.”
A door opened somewhere behind them.
Several workers stepped into the hangar.
Rusk glanced toward them.
“Keep moving!” he shouted.
Nobody moved.
One mechanic took out his phone.
Lila closed her eyes.
Perfect.
By midnight she would probably be a viral video.
Idiot Teenager Tries to Steal Military Truck.
“Sergeant,” she said through clenched teeth, “check my identification.”
“I’ll check everything.”
“My wallet is in my backpack.”
Rusk kicked the backpack away from her feet.
It slid across the concrete.
“Which pocket?”
“Front.”
Rusk kept one hand on Lila and reached for the bag.
He unzipped it.
A camera.
A notebook.
Headphones.
Two granola bars.
A small sketchbook.
Then he found the wallet.
He opened it.
The color disappeared from his face.
Inside was Lila’s school identification.
Underneath it was a visitor credential bearing the emblem of the National Emergency Logistics Directorate.
Rusk stared at the surname.
VOSS.
He looked at Lila again.
“Anyone can print this.”
Lila almost laughed.
“You cannot seriously still think—”
A siren screamed outside.
Not an emergency siren.
A convoy warning.
Everyone in the hangar turned.
Three black vehicles entered through the enormous eastern doors.
They stopped simultaneously.
Doors opened.
Men and women in dark rain gear stepped out.
None of them ran.
That somehow made them more intimidating.
Then the rear door of the middle vehicle opened.
Commander Evelyn Voss emerged.
She was fifty-one, tall and silver-haired, dressed in a charcoal coat over a dark uniform.