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Fort Meade - Will Morgan’s Office - 0920 Hours R

It was after nine, and the day was already a couple of hours old.
Three members of Team Watchtower sat at the small round table in front of Major Will Morgan’s desk while he read the report they had pushed to his monitors. The twin screens on the right-hand return of his L-shaped, meticulously uncluttered desk cast a cold, bluish glow across the room.
Sara Brandt—tall, dark-haired, razor-witted—jabbed irritably at her tablet, the soft taps punctuating the otherwise still office. Cecil Brandon, handsome and broad-shouldered, sat beside her. His posture was a perfect vertical line, the result of a childhood spent under the watchful eye of his staff-sergeant father. And Cathy Wang, the youngest and newest of them, had stopped pretending to read her notes. Her gaze kept drifting to the polished model of an ancient Greek trireme sitting on the credenza behind Will’s desk. Alongside it rested a single framed 6×9 portrait of a beautiful, pensive middle-aged woman.
They were the only personal objects in the entire room. Cathy found herself wondering—as nearly everyone eventually did—what story those two artifacts told about the man who kept everything else hidden behind precision, discipline, and retraint.
The silence was broken by the harshness of the phone ringtone.
“Major, this is the Corporal Daniels at Demps Visitors Control Center. We have a Mr. John Groban here from a law firm. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he’s asking to see you.”
Will frowned. “I don’t know a John Groban. Put him on.”
The phone shifted hands. “Major Morgan?”
“Yes.”
“My apologies for the intrusion. I was at the fort on other business and hoped you might give me a few minutes. It’s a matter concerning your mother.”
Will’s voice cooled. “My mother is dead.”
“I’m aware, sir. This concerns…unsettled business. I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.”
“Our building doesn’t allow walk-ins. You can make an appointment, or wait. I’ll come when I can.”
* * *
Demps Visitor Center 1000 Hours R
Forty minutes later Will pulled up to the DVCC. The lobby was nearly empty. Only one civilian sat waiting, a compact man in a dark suit who rose as Will entered.
“Major Morgan.” Groban extended a hand and a card. “Thank you for coming.”
Will studied him, then sat. “What’s this about?”
“My firm represents the executor of your father’s estate.”
Will blinked. “My father? I never knew my father. I don’t even know his name.”
Groban’s tone was careful. “Your mother wrote him from her deathbed. She told him the truth. He chose not to approach you, honoring what she said were your wishes.”
Will leaned back, unsettled. “So why now?”
“Because, Major, you are his sole heir.”
“I don’t want anything from him.”
Groban nodded as if expecting that. “If you decline, the estate passes to the State of Vermont his last legal residence. It’s substantial. A Vermont vacation home, a car, securities worth over three million.”
Groban slid a folder across the table. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added:
“Your father…served. His name carried weight in certain circles. You’ll see it in the papers inside.”
Will froze, his hand hovering over the folder. “What circles?”
Groban gave a faint, guarded smile. “Ones you already know well, Major. That’s all I can say for now.”
Will didn’t open it. He tucked the folder under his arm as he rose. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch.”
They shook hands. Groban watched him leave, the weight of the unopened file pulling harder with every step.
* * *
Parking Lot Outside DVCC
Will sat behind the wheel, the folder untouched for nearly ten minutes. Finally, he pulled it into his lap and flipped it open.
The name on the heading landed like a hammer:
Estate of Colonel Jonathan Carrick Hale (Ret.)
Not Morgan. Hale. His father’s name—kept apart, erased from Will’s life until now.
He skimmed the executor’s notes, the list of assets. A lakeside property on Lake Dunmore Vermont. Securities portfolios. An old Mercedes in storage. But it wasn’t the inventory that made his chest tighten. It was the annotations in the margins—cryptic references to “sensitive files,” “classified holdings under review,” and one line that chilled him: pending clearance from Department of Defense archivist.
This wasn’t just wealth. It was a legacy threaded into the intelligence world.
Will’s knuckles whitened around the folder. His mother’s secrecy suddenly made more sense—Hale had lived in shadows, and maybe died in them too.
He snapped the folder shut, staring at his own reflection in the windshield.
Illegitimate. Bastard. Lovechild. Hidden. Denied.
And now, entangled in secrets he hadn’t asked for.
This wasn’t just inheritance. It was unfinished business.

This is the third book in the Watchtower Series, introducing Team Watchtower—an elite investigative unit within the U.S. Army Counterintelligence Command (ACIC).

Most espionage thrillers revolve around the CIA. However, following the National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) of 2025, ACIC was formally elevated from a primarily intelligence-focused agency into a hybrid counterintelligence and law enforcement command. This landmark change granted its civilian special agents limited federal arrest authority for national security crimes and expanded its operational scope beyond military installations.

Today, ACIC stands as the only counterintelligence organization with both foreign and domestic jurisdiction—and the legal authority to investigate, detain, and prosecute espionage within and beyond U.S. borders.