Chapter 33
JOLIE
The corridor outside Driscoll’s command sector smells different from the rest of the base.
It’s cleaner, sharper, like someone scrubbed the air itself until it forgot how to carry anything human, and the lighting shifts from utilitarian strips to something colder and brighter that reflects off the polished floor in a way that makes every movement feel exposed.
Dadams walks half a step ahead of me, his shoulders tight, his breathing controlled but not steady, and I keep my grip firm on his arm, just enough pressure to remind him who’s setting the pace.
“You still have time to walk away from this,” he says quietly, not turning his head.
“No,” I reply, guiding him forward as we pass the last checkpoint. “I really don’t.”
“You think forcing this out into the open is going to fix anything?” he asks.
“I think it’s going to stop them from pretending it isn’t happening,” I counter, my voice low as I scan the corridor ahead. “That’s a start.”
I can feel the tension in his arm shift under my grip.
“You’re not wrong about what he’s done,” Dadams says. “You’re wrong about what happens next.”
“Yeah?” I murmur. “Then enlighten me.”
“You pull this thread,” he says, finally glancing at me, “and you don’t control what unravels.”
I meet his gaze without slowing.
“I’m not trying to control it,” I say. “I’m trying to expose it.”
“That’s the same thing,” he replies.
“No,” I shake my head slightly. “It’s not.”
The command doors come into view ahead, sealed and flanked by a pair of guards standing at rigid attention, their posture sharper than anything we passed on the way in.
Their eyes track us immediately, attention locking onto Dadams first, then shifting to me, narrowing as they register the mismatch.
“Hold,” one of them says, stepping forward. “This sector is restricted.”
Dadams exhales slowly, his voice slipping into something practiced and official.
“Override authorization,” he says, lifting his chin just enough to sell it. “Inspector-level clearance. Immediate entry.”
The guard hesitates, his gaze flicking between us.
“She’s not cleared,” he says.
Dadams doesn’t miss a step.
“She’s with me,” he replies. “And if you want to challenge that, you can explain the delay directly to Driscoll.”
The name lands.
The guard shifts.
“Stand by,” he mutters, turning slightly to the panel.
I lean in just enough for Dadams to hear me.
“Good,” I murmur. “Keep going like that.”
“You’re enjoying this,” he mutters back.
“Not even a little,” I reply.
The panel flashes.
Access granted.
The doors slide open.
“After you,” I say quietly, nudging him forward.
He steps through.
I follow.
The command room is larger than I expected, but not open. Everything is arranged with purpose, consoles layered in arcs, displays cycling data in controlled streams, and at the center of it all—
Driscoll.
He stands with his back partially turned, one hand braced against the central console, his posture straight, composed, like nothing in this place exists outside his control. The lighting casts sharp angles across his uniform, clean lines, no disorder, no hesitation.
“Inspector,” he says without turning. “You’re out of position.”
Dadams doesn’t respond immediately.
I tighten my grip slightly.
“Not anymore,” I say.
Driscoll turns.
His gaze lands on me first, then shifts to Dadams, and something in his expression changes—not surprise, not confusion, but calculation.
“Lieutenant,” he says, his tone even. “You’re not authorized to be here.”
“Yeah,” I reply, stepping forward into the center of the room. “That’s been a theme lately.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“You should be dead,” he says.
“Funny,” I mutter. “I had the same thought.”
Dadams shifts beside me, tension rolling through him like he’s standing on a fault line.
“Commander,” he starts, his voice tighter now. “We need to—”
Driscoll raises a hand.
“Quiet,” he says.
The word lands with enough force to stop him mid-sentence.
I watch the exchange closely, the dynamic between them sharper now that we’re all in the same room.
“Go ahead,” I say, my voice calm as I glance at Dadams. “Tell him.”
Dadams swallows, his throat working as he looks between us.
“The reports,” he says finally. “They’re compromised.”
Driscoll’s expression doesn’t change.
“In what way?” he asks.
Dadams hesitates.
I step closer.
“Say it,” I murmur.
He exhales.
“They’re fabricated,” he says. “The breach patterns, the incursions—they’re being controlled.”
The room feels tighter.
The air sharper.
Driscoll studies him for a second, then looks back at me.
“You’ve been busy,” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “And we’re not done yet.”
I reach into my pocket, pulling out the recording device, activating it with a quick flick of my thumb.
“This is being documented,” I say, holding it up just enough for him to see. “Everything you say from here on out goes on record.”
His gaze drops to the device, then lifts back to my face.
“You think that protects you?” he asks.
“I think it exposes you,” I counter.
He exhales slowly, something almost like amusement flickering across his expression.
“You’ve misunderstood your position,” he says.
“Have I?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies. “You’re not in control here.”
I tilt my head slightly.
“Then prove me wrong,” I say. “Explain the breach patterns. Explain Tury.”
His gaze sharpens.
“That situation was handled,” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “That’s the problem.”
Dadams shifts beside me again, tension building.
“She’s right,” he says, his voice stronger now. “The data logs, the patrol adjustments—there’s no way to justify them as isolated incidents.”
Driscoll’s eyes flick to him.
“And you’re admitting to mishandling those reports?” he asks.
“I’m admitting they weren’t mine to handle,” Dadams replies.
The temperature in the room drops.
Not physically.
Something else.
Driscoll straightens fully, his posture shifting from composed to something harder.
“You’ve both overstepped,” he says.
“No,” I reply. “We’ve uncovered it.”
His gaze snaps back to me.
“You’ve uncovered nothing you can use,” he says.
I lift the device slightly.
“Try me,” I say.
He watches me for a long second.
Then—
Something changes.
It’s subtle.
A shift in his stance.
A tightening in his shoulders.
“You think this ends with exposure,” he says, his voice lower now. “You think this system collapses because you recorded a conversation.”
“I think it starts here,” I reply.
He nods once.
Almost thoughtfully.
Then he moves.
Fast.
Too fast.
His hand comes up, weapon already drawn, and the shot cracks through the room before I can fully process the motion.
Dadams jerks beside me.
The impact slams into him hard enough to twist his body, the sound of it echoing sharp against the walls as he stumbles backward.
“No—” I start, reaching for him.
He hits the ground.
Doesn’t get back up.
The world narrows.
Sound distorts.
“Loose ends,” Driscoll says calmly, adjusting his grip on the weapon.
Rage hits clean and immediate, cutting through everything else.
“You just signed your own confession,” I snap, raising my weapon.
“Did I?” he asks.
The alarms trigger.
Loud.
Sharp.
Red lights flood the room as the system reacts, lockdown protocols slamming into place.
“Yeah,” I breathe, backing toward the exit. “You really did.”
He steps forward.
“Drop it,” he orders.
I don’t.
Instead, I fire.
Not to hit him.
To break the console behind him.
The shot sparks, the system flickering violently as data streams glitch across the displays.
“Contain her,” he snaps.
I move.
Fast.
The door’s already closing, but I hit it at the right angle, slipping through the narrowing gap as the lockdown seals behind me.
“Stop her!” someone shouts.
“Yeah,” I mutter, sprinting down the corridor. “You can try.”
The base erupts into motion around me, boots hitting the floor, voices overlapping, commands firing off in rapid succession.
I don’t slow.
I don’t look back.
The device is still in my hand.
Still recording.
“Good,” I breathe. “That’s all I needed.”
I cut into the first side corridor I see, angling away from the main pursuit, my path shifting instinctively as I map escape routes on the fly.
“You’re not catching me,” I mutter, pushing through the pain in my side.
Because this—
This changes everything.
And I’m not letting it die in that room.