Just Will, myself, CS Beasley; Petty Officer Slater ... He doesn’t want to risk any more than is necessary.
I breathe a sigh of relief, feeling suddenly strange, suddenly buoyant. Because I like Will. I trust Will.
What I am less confident about is getting us into the storage area of what was once my uncle’s company; i.e., Patriot Foods and Life Preserves (suppliers of ready-to-eat, freeze-dried meals to survivalists and preppers worldwide; people whom, though he’d made a fortune off them, he didn’t seem to actually like). Or that an eye-scan made when I was 12-years-old—so he could watch my delight when, visiting the factory months later, the door to the vault suddenly unlocked (without my hand ever touching it) and swung open like a magic portal—might remain in the system; or that I mi
