“Seventeen, actually.” Lamont’s smile was warm. “And I’ve read your work too. You’re good, Ewen. This piece about the armor failures is some of the best investigative journalism I’ve seen inyears. It just needs...” He gestured at the screen. “Heart. Give them Cortesi’s story first. Then hit them with the evidence.”
Ewen saved the document and opened a new paragraph at the beginning. Lamont was right. He’d been so intent on getting all his facts on the page, he’d momentarily forgotten to add the people behind it. They deserved their part on the page. His fingers found the keyboard.
Sergeant James Cortesi survived three tours in Afghanistan before an IED took his leg, and his faith in the equipment meant to protect him. “I trusted the armor,” he told this reporter six months before his death. “We all did. That’s what gets me - we trusted it, and it failed.”
“Better,” Lamont murmured, reading over his shoulder. “Now tell them why it failed.”
The words came easier after that. Ewen wove Cortesi’s quotes through the technical specifications, letting the soldier’s voice carry the weight of betrayal. He detailed the cheaper materials Hardline substituted, the falsified safety tests, and the bribes flowing to Winters and Paulson. Forty-three dead soldiers became names, became families destroyed, became a pattern of corporate greed that stretched across four years.
By the time Ewen finished the revision, his hands were shaking.
“Good?” Lamont asked quietly.
“Yeah.” Ewen’s voice came out rough. “Yeah, I think so.”
Lamont’s hand settled on his shoulder, steady and warm. “You did right by Cortesi. By all of them.”
Ewen saved the document and closed his laptop before he could second-guess the changes. His fox was restless, pacing inside his skin. Writing about the deaths, about Cortesi’s murder, broughteverything back. The basement. The zip ties. The woman’s cold voice asking about his sources.
“Hey.” Lamont crouched beside the chair, bringing them eye-to-eye. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
“I know.” Ewen managed a smile. “Just...ready to get this published. Get it out there before anyone else dies.”
“Speaking of which.” Lamont stood, pulling Ewen up with him. “I made some calls yesterday and talked to a few contacts at European outlets.”
“And?”
“Der Spiegel wants to meet with us. I didn’t give any details, just said we had something major involving American defense contracts and political corruption.” Lamont’s grin turned sharp. “The chief editor cleared his schedule for tomorrow afternoon.”
Ewen’s stomach flipped. “Der Spiegel. You got us a meeting with - Lamont, that’s one of the most respected investigative outlets in Europe.”
“I know.” Lamont looked pleased with himself. “You nervous?”
“Terrified,” Ewen admitted. His reputation at The New York Times meant something in New York, but Der Spiegel operated on a different level entirely. “What if they think the story isn’t strong enough? Or that I’m not credible after The Times scrubbed my employment records?”
“Your work at The Times speaks for itself. The Riverdale corruption exposé, that piece on pension fund embezzlement, the pharmaceutical kickback investigation...” Lamont counted them off on his fingers. “You broke major stories, Ewen. Won awards. One phone call to any of your editors - the real ones, not Louise parroting whatever line she’s been fed - and Der Spiegel will know exactly who you are.”
The confidence in Lamont’s voice steadied something in Ewen’s chest. His fox settled, reassured by their mate’s certainty.
“Besides,” Lamont continued, “you’ve got documentation that would make most investigative teams weep with envy. Field reports, maintenance logs, financial records, signed affidavits. This isn’t a conspiracy theory blog post. This is airtight.”
“Until Arcturus makes the witnesses disappear,” Ewen muttered.
“Which is why we move fast.” Lamont pulled him close, wrapping strong arms around him. “After Der Spiegel agrees, we coordinate with other outlets. Simultaneous publication across multiple countries. By the time Arcturus realizes what’s happening, it’ll be too late to bury it.”
Ewen pressed his face against Lamont’s shoulder, breathing in the warm scent of his mate. “You really think this will work?”
“I think you’re brilliant, brave, and stubborn as hell.” Lamont’s lips brushed his temple. “And I think those bastards picked the wrong journalist to stick in a basement.”
/~/~/~/~/
Ewen tugged at his collar as they walked through the lobby of the Der Spiegel headquarters the next day. Lamont had insisted they both wear suits for the meeting, and Ewen felt uncomfortably formal. His fox wanted to shift, to run, to be anywhere but in the one place where his entire investigation could live or die. He’d lived with the case for months, had almost died for it, and now, the whole outcome of his investigation and writing hinged on one meeting with a man he’d never met.
“Relax,” Lamont murmured, his hand warm against the small of Ewen’s back. “You’ve got this.”
The chief editor, Klaus Brenner, met them in a conference room on the executive floor. He was older than Ewen expected, maybe late fifties, with silver threading through his dark hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing.
“Mr. Cross. Lamont.” Brenner shook their hands with a firm grip. “Please, sit.”