Delivery

The day had finally come.

Three black military trucks pulled into the delivery bay of the Sentinel BioTech facility just after dawn. Their license plates were unmarked, save for a small emblem on each front bumper—Fort Hanley's crest.

Inside, the air was tense.

Angel stood near the logistics desk, a clipboard in hand. She was already dressed in a clean navy blazer and black slacks, looking more like a senior diplomat than a project manager.

Matthew entered a minute later, sleeves rolled up, phone to his ear.

"No, they're not authorized to photograph anything past the gates," he said flatly. "Tell them it's a national security issue. No exceptions."

He ended the call and walked straight up to Angel.

"Media's starting to circle," he muttered. "Somehow they figured out today's the day."

Angel didn't look surprised. "Word always leaks. But we're covered. Security's tight, and the military escort's doubling as a deterrent."