Chapter 13 - The Ghost Accounts
The Carolina woods were mercilessly quiet after the rain. Water dripped from the needles of the loblolly pines, landing with distinct taps on the tactical helmet I had strapped on before stepping off the back porch. Through the green phosphorus haze of my night-vision goggles, the terrain resolved into stark shades of mint and shadow.
Miller and two operators from the post Special Reaction Team were already flanking the perimeter shed, their carbines held against their chests, moving with the silence of smoke over water.
"Targets stopped near the secondary fence," Miller whispered through the bone-conduction headset against my jaw. "They’re using wire cutters on the outer chain-link. Looks like they’re trying to plant a surveillance transponder on the utility box."
"Take them intact if possible," I replied softly. "Arthur Sterling needs to know that his checks are bouncing."
We converged in a collapsing triangle. The intruders—two men dressed in sterile black field gear without insignia or identifying markers—heard nothing until the infrared laser sights from Miller’s team painted two glowing green dots directly over their breastbones.
"Don't twitch," Miller said from five yards out, stepping from behind a swollen oak tree with his rifle leveled. "Drop the cutters, lace your fingers over your heads, and go flat on your stomachs. Right now."
One of the men made the fatal mistake of dropping his hand toward the holster on his right thigh.
I fired a single round from the shotgun into the soft earth eighteen inches in front of his boots. The explosion of damp soil, pine mulch, and roaring percussion knocked him off-balance, pitching him face-first into the brambles. Before he could recover, Miller’s boot came down between his shoulder blades, driving the breath from his lungs in a ragged gasp.
Ten minutes later, both men were zip-tied and seated on aluminum folding chairs inside the cottage’s detached garage, the roll-up door sealed shut and the windows blacked out with heavy canvas.
Agent Vance stood against the workbench, methodically emptying their tactical vests. There were no cell phones, no driver’s licenses, only high-grade encrypted two-way radios, two silenced nine-millimeter automatics, and a plastic-laminated map of the military base with Abigail’s cottage circled in red grease pencil.
I walked up to the man who had reached for his sidearm. He was in his late thirties, possessing the cropped haircut and scarred knuckles of an ex-private contractor who had spent too much time in the private security underworld of Northern Virginia.
"Who wired the money to your offshore account?" I asked, looking down at him. My voice was dangerously calm, devoid of anger or theatrical cruelty.
He spat blood onto the concrete floor between my boots. "I don't know what you're talking about, lady. We were hunting deer. Took a wrong turn off the state road."
"Hunting deer with silenced tactical pistols and thermal blankets," I noted, turning to Vance. "Does the state wildlife commission issue those now?"
"Not in this district, General," Vance said dryly.
I crouched down so my eyes were level with his. "You’re on a federal installation under Title 10 authority. You breached a marked perimeter during a time of heightened security. If I classify you as an unlawful enemy combatant conducting hostile reconnaissance against a flag officer's quarters, you won't see a civilian magistrate. You’ll sit in a brig at Guantanamo Bay until your grandchildren are drawing pensions."
The man’s eyes flickered, the bravado slipping for just a fraction of a second.
"Arthur Sterling didn't pay you enough to spend twenty years in a windowless cell, son," I continued softly. "His son Julian is currently in the Cumberland County jail sobbing into a prison pillow because the plumbing doesn't work. His family name is dirt. His money is being seized by the hour. When the federal court freezes the rest of those Panamanian accounts tomorrow morning, your wire transfer will be worthless paper."
He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing against the plastic zip-ties securing his wrists behind him.
"We were hired through an intermediary in Miami," he finally muttered, staring at the floor. "Man named Corvo. He told us we were just supposed to plant a live audio feed on the cottage and track when the girl left the base for the federal building."
"And if she left without an escort?" I pressed.
The man looked away, refusing to meet my eyes.
Behind me, the garage door leading into the main house clicked open. Abigail stepped into the room. She was pale, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, but she didn't flinch from the sight of the two battered mercenaries tied to the chairs. She walked forward until she stood right beside me, looking down at the map on the table.
"Corvo isn't in Miami," Abigail said, her voice steady and lethal. "Corvo is Arthur’s private yacht captain. The vessel is the *St. Jude*. It's registered under a shell company in the Bahamas, but it has a permanent slip at the marina in Southport."
The mercenary’s head snapped up, his jaw slackening in shock.
Abigail looked him dead in the eyes, a cold, bitter smile touching her lips. "Julian always bragged about that boat when he was drunk. He thought I wasn't listening. He thought I was just a frightened little girl who didn't understand maritime registrations."
She turned to Vance. "Check the Southport fuel docks. If Corvo is coordinating operations from the boat, Arthur isn't hiding in Europe. He’s sitting right on the North Carolina coast, waiting to pick up Julian the second his lawyers file that emergency bail appeal."
I stood up, resting a heavy, warm hand on Abby’s shoulder.
May you like
"Vance," I said, never taking my eyes off the captive. "Call the Coast Guard. Tell them we have a target of interest in international waters."
***
