Chapter 12
THATCHER
Garrison's rental sits at the end of a dead-end street, chain-link fence around the perimeter, overgrown yard providing decent cover. It's single-story construction, concrete block, with two entry points visible from our position. Rivera's team has the back. We take the front.
Sullivan moves up beside me, checks his weapon. "Stack's ready, Captain."
I glance back at the tactical vehicle parked down the block. I can't see through the tinted windows, but I know Gwen's watching the monitors, listening to every word over comms. The NCIS agent assigned to her protection is in there too, following protocol.
"Captain?" Sullivan's voice pulls me back.
"Warrant came through," I confirm, checking my phone for Rivera's text. "Move up." I signal Garcia and Santos. "Standard breach. I want her alive for questioning."
We approach in formation, weapons ready, scanning windows and sight lines. There's no movement visible, no vehicles in the driveway. Either Garrison's hunkered down or she's already gone.
My earpiece crackles. I hear Gwen's voice, steady and professional despite the tension underneath. "Thatcher, hospital records show Garrison has a sister in Oceanside. Her emergency contact lists this address."
"Copy that." I signal the team to hold position. "Any recent calls between them?"
"Checking now." There's a brief pause, keyboard clicks audible in the background. "Last contact was yesterday afternoon. Duration under a minute."
So Garrison called for help, probably got spooked when we started closing in. Smart move, but not smart enough.
"We're at the door," I say quietly. "Stay on comms."
"I'm here."
Sullivan sets the breaching charge. Santos and Garcia take positions on either side. Rivera's voice comes through confirming his team is ready at the back entrance.
"On my mark." I raise my hand. "Three. Two. One. Execute."
The charge blows. Sullivan kicks the door open and we're moving, flowing through the breach point with practiced precision. Living room clear. Kitchen clear. Hallway leads to bedrooms in the back.
"NCIS!"
There's movement in the rear bedroom. Garcia goes left, I go right, Santos covers the hallway. A woman in her fifties stands there, hands up, terrified but not Garrison.
"Where is she?" I keep my weapon trained center mass.
"I don't know what you're talking about—"
"Commander Garrison. Your sister. Where is she?"
The woman's eyes flick toward the closet.
Sullivan moves to the closet, yanks it open. Empty except for clothes and boxes, but there's a trap door in the floor. Clever.
"Basement access," Sullivan reports.
Rivera's voice crackles through. "We've got the exterior basement entrance covered. No movement yet."
I signal Santos to secure the sister, move to the trap door. It's dark below, no sound, no indication of occupancy. Could be empty. Could be an ambush.
"Gwen." I keep my voice low. "Can you pull up any blueprints on this property?"
"Searching." I hear more keyboard sounds. "Found it. Basement is small, single room, no subdivisions. One entrance from inside, one exterior door on the north side."
"Windows?"
"A couple small ones on the east wall, ground level."
The exit points are limited. If Garrison's down there, she's trapped.
"Rivera, cover those east windows. She tries to bolt, take her."
"Roger that."
I peer down into the darkness, let my eyes adjust. I can see a concrete floor far enough below to hurt if I land wrong, and a wooden ladder leading down. There's no movement, no sound.
"Commander Garrison, this is Captain Caine, United States Marine Corps. The building is surrounded. Come up with your hands visible."
Silence.
Then I hear faint shuffling. Someone's down there.
"I'm going down," I say into comms. "Sullivan, cover me."
"Copy."
I holster my sidearm, grip the ladder, descend quickly.
I hit the concrete floor and immediately press against the wall, weapon drawn.
The basement is cramped, cluttered with storage boxes and old furniture.
And in the far corner, pressed against the wall near the exterior door, stands Commander Garrison.
She's got a knife. Not a gun, which means she either left her service weapon somewhere or never brought it. Desperation makes people stupid.
"Put it down," I say calmly. "There's nowhere to go."
"You don't understand." Her voice shakes. "They'll kill me if I talk."
"Who will?"
"The people I work for."
So there is a bigger fish. Rivera will want to hear this.
"Then we'll protect you. But you need to put down the knife and come with me."
She looks at the exterior door. I can see her calculating distance, odds, chances of making it. Outside, Rivera's team is waiting. She won't get far.
"Don't," I warn.
She bolts.
She throws the knife at me—I dodge left, the blade clattering against the concrete wall—and slams into the exterior door. It flies open and she's through, running hard across the overgrown yard. I'm right behind her, boots hitting dirt, calling it in.
"Suspect fleeing north on foot, Rivera move to intercept."
Garrison's fast for someone who sits at a desk most days. Her feet pound across the yard, heading for the chain-link fence. She hits it at full speed, scrambles up with desperate energy. The fence rattles and sways under her weight.
I'm faster.
I grab her ankle as she reaches the top, yank hard. She kicks, connects with my shoulder, but I don't let go. She topples backward and I catch her mid-fall, both of us hitting the ground hard. The impact drives the air from my lungs but I keep my grip, roll with the momentum, come up on top.
She's still fighting. She tries to knee me, goes for my eyes with her nails. Training kicks in—I trap her wrists, use my weight to pin her, shift to avoid her flailing legs.
"Stop fighting," I growl.
She doesn't. She twists like an eel, manages to get one hand free, claws at my face. I feel skin tear, warm blood on my cheek.
Enough.
I flip her onto her stomach, plant my knee in her back, get both wrists secured behind her. She's still thrashing, screaming obscenities, but it's over. I pull out the cuffs, snap them on with practiced efficiency.
"Commander Garrison, you're under arrest for theft of government property and conspiracy."
She sags against the ground, the fight draining out of her all at once. Now she's crying, gasping for air. "You don't know what you've done. They'll come for all of us."
"Who will?"
But she just shakes her head, shuts down completely.
Rivera arrives with NCIS agents, takes custody. I watch them load her into a vehicle, then key my comms.
"Gwen, we're clear. Everyone's safe."
Her exhale of relief is audible even through the static. "Copy that. Good work."
The drive back to base takes a while. Gwen follows in the tactical vehicle with her NCIS escort while my team secures evidence from Garrison's hideout. By the time we arrive at the NCIS facility, Rivera already has Garrison in an interrogation room.
I find Gwen in the conference room with Rivera's team, reviewing the seized materials spread across the table.
There are hard drives, documents, and burner phones.
She's shed the tactical vest, back in her regular clothes, looking focused and professional as she catalogs items against her hospital inventory records.
"Finding anything?" I ask.
She looks up, relief flickering across her face before the professional mask slides back.
"Equipment serial numbers match hospital records.
This confirms Garrison was the inside contact.
" She indicates a stack of shipping manifests.
"But these show the stolen equipment was being routed through multiple intermediaries before final sale.
We're looking at a network, not just two people. "
Rivera joins us. "Garrison's lawyer just arrived. She's not talking without a deal." He looks frustrated. "We need Briggs. He's the enforcer, the one who knows the buyers."
"Cell records from Garrison's burner show multiple calls to the same number over the past month," Gwen adds, pulling up data on her tablet.
"Nox helped me access the camera system earlier so I could cross-reference hospital footage.
The number traces back to a former hospital security contractor named Briggs. "
So that's the connection. Phone records tie them together.
"Any word on his location?" I ask.
"Nothing yet. We've got alerts out at all gates, checkpoints, his known associates under surveillance." Rivera's phone buzzes. She checks it, frowns. "Base security flagged his vehicle entering through the south gate a while ago. But they lost track of it after that."
Too long. He's been on base too long and we're just hearing about it now.
"Why wasn't this flagged immediately?" My voice comes out sharper than intended.
"Security didn't know he was a suspect until after he'd already cleared the gate. By the time the alert went out, he'd disappeared into base traffic."
Rivera’s already moving to the computer terminal, pulling up something. "Let me see if I can find him on the camera feeds."
She types rapidly, pulling up camera feeds from different areas of the base. She scans parking lots, building entrances, and street views. Gwen watches, her eyes move across each screen with the same focused intensity she uses in the OR.
"There." Rivera points to a feed showing the hospital parking structure. "That matches the plate on his vehicle, level three. He parked minutes ago."
"He's inside the hospital," I say. "Why?"
Gwen's face goes pale. "My office. I brought copies of the hard documentation back yesterday to cross-reference against the seized evidence. If he destroys those—"
"You have the originals secure?"
"Yes, at home. But he doesn't know they're copies. The handwritten notes, timestamps, chain of custody documentation all look original." She turns to Rivera. "Defense attorneys would have a field day if they thought we lost the evidence chain."