The file arrived on a flash drive the size of a thumbnail. 
No return address. 
No note.
 Just a single spreadsheet, a set of shell companies stacked like bad lies, and one anomaly that wouldn’t sit still. 
Christian Wolff noticed it in under three seconds.
A rounding error.
Not the kind an intern makes. The kind that gets people buried.
He sat at the folding table inside the Airstream, bare bulb humming above him, boots planted flat on the floor. He tapped the pen against the ledger, once, twice, three times, 
then stopped. 
Routine complete. 
Focus locked.
The money trail pointed to a Midwest defense subcontractor laundering weapons through agricultural grants. Grain silos on paper. Rockets in reality. The client wasn’t asking for help balancing books. They were asking him to make the problem disappear.
Christian didn’t answer emails. He packed.
He arrived two nights later, parked a mile from the facility, engine cold. The place looked boring by design, corrugated steel, security lights, chain-link fences meant to suggest safety instead of enforce it. Cameras mounted too high. Guards walking predictable loops.

Predictability was mercy.

Christian lay prone in the tree line, rifle breathing with him, wind measured, distance confirmed. He didn’t shoot first. He watched. Timed patterns. Counted steps. Logged yawns. He waited until the shift supervisor checked his phone, every fourteen minutes, like clockwork.
The shot wasn’t loud. Suppressor. Subsonic. The man folded forward, forehead tapping concrete once before going still.
Christian moved.
He cleared the fence without touching it, rolled through shadow, and entered through a service door whose lock had been replaced three times and never upgraded. Inside smelled like oil, dust, and stale coffee. A working man’s lie.
Two guards near the loading bay. One laugh. One complaint about overtime. Christian came from behind, knife work clean and close. No drama. No wasted blood. He lowered them gently, because noise was an error.
He reached the server room.
That’s where the math lived.
The files confirmed everything. Missile components disguised as farm equipment. Payoffs routed through charities. A senator’s cousin as a silent partner. Christian copied it all, tagged redundancies, flagged false clean trails. He created a map so precise it could ruin lives with a keystroke.

That’s when the alarms went off.
Someone had hired smarter muscle.
Christian didn’t swear. He unplugged the drive, zipped his pack, and counted exits. Four available. Two compromised in under five seconds. He chose the one that hurt more.
The hallway filled with boots. Not panicked. Coordinated. Ex-military. Contractors who thought they were the apex. Christian dropped a flashbang into the corridor and turned away before it detonated. He didn’t need to see the effect to know the result.
Gunfire followed. He moved through it, using angles, shelving, machinery. One man rushed. Christian shot him in the thigh, then the shoulder, then the head, not because it was necessary, but because staggered resistance wasted time.
Another tried flanking. Christian anticipated it and left a surprise: a trip line wired to a forklift battery. The sound wasn’t loud. The silence afterward was.
He took a round through the side. Not deep. He acknowledged it the way others acknowledged rain. Adjusted posture. Continued.
By the time he reached the yard, three men were left breathing. Two were hiding. One was screaming.
Christian approached the screamer, crouched, and checked his watch.
“You don’t need to die,” he said, voice flat. “But you do need to tell me who hired you.”
The man tried lying. Christian broke his wrist. Then the other one. He waited exactly ten seconds between breaks.

The truth came fast after that.
The buyer wasn’t the client. The client was the trap.

Christian left the facility burning, not dramatically, just enough. He drove to a safe house, stitched himself up, and reviewed the new data. The real threat wasn’t the weapons. It was the cleanup crew coming next.
So he went to them.
Three days later, a private jet taxied on a remote strip. Four men inside. Expensive watches. Clean suits. The kind who never got their hands dirty and thought that made them safe.
Christian was already there.
He sat across from them at a folding table in a hangar that smelled like fuel and regret. The flash drive rested between them like a loaded gun.
“You’re missing twelve million dollars,” Christian said.
One man laughed. Another reached for his phone. Christian shot the phone. Then the man’s hand. The order mattered.
He laid out the spreadsheet verbally, line by line, explaining exactly how each of them would fall, prison, disgrace, suicide, assassination. He didn’t threaten. He explained.
“You hired the wrong people,” he said. “And you hired me without knowing it.”

They tried to negotiate.
Christian stood, collected the drive, and left two alive. That was the calculation. Survivors carried fear better than corpses.
Weeks later, the money moved where it should have gone in the first place. The charities became real. The weapons disappeared. The senator resigned for “health reasons.”

Christian returned to the Airstream.
He cleaned his rifle. He replaced the pen. He logged the injury and the lesson. He cooked dinner the same way he always did.
Balance restored.

Somewhere, someone would eventually notice the gap in the system, the absence where corruption used to live. 
They would call it luck. Or justice. Or coincidence.

Christian Wolff would call it correcting the books.

And he would wait for the next error.