“Still pretending to be a soldier?” my brother laughed as my entire family humiliated me at our backyard barbecue, but seconds later, a V-22 Osprey landed outside, two officers saluted me, and my father finally realized he had no idea who his daughter really was. / Chapter 6 / 100

Chapter 6 - The Interrogation of the CEO

The temporary command post was set up inside the regional director’s office on the second floor of the Apex logistics terminal.

The room was a monument to cheap executive vanity: faux-leather armchairs, a golf putting green laid out across the laminate floor, and framed photos of the CEO posing with various local politicians at charity galas.

Now, the mahogany desk had been swept clean of paperweights and family photos. In their place sat three secure military laptop terminals, flickering with encrypted satellite feeds from Washington and Peterson Air Force Base.

Carl Vance, the CEO, sat on the edge of a steel folding chair in the center of the room. His linen suit was soaked with sweat, sticking to his heavy chest. His hands were handcuffed behind his back.

I stood by the window, looking out over the yard where our tactical team was systematically sweeping every other trailer for secondary tracking devices.

Major Vance—my operations officer—slammed a heavy manila folder onto the desk. The sound made the CEO flinch so violently he nearly tipped off his chair.

"Look at me, Carl," I said, not turning around from the window.

Carl swallowed, his voice hoarse and cracking. "I—I have a right to legal counsel. You can't just land a combat helicopter in my yard and hold me hostage! I know Senator Higgins! I know the Governor!"

I turned around slowly. I walked to the edge of the desk, rested both hands on the cool wood, and leaned down until my face was twelve inches from his.

"Carl," I whispered. "Look at my uniform."

He blinked, his eyes darting across the subdued black rank insignia on my collar, the gold directorate crest on my tactical vest, and the cold, unblinking stillness in my eyes.

"You aren't dealing with the Fort Worth Police Department," I said. "You aren't dealing with the Texas Rangers. You aren’t even dealing with the standard FBI white-collar division. You are currently classified as a civilian logistics contractor operating under emergency Title 10 wartime interdiction authority."

Carl’s jaw worked, but no sound came out.

"Do you know what that means, Carl?" I continued, my voice so soft it was almost intimate. "It means your constitutional right to an immediate bail hearing doesn't apply while classified assets are in active recovery. It means that until I sign a clearance voucher, you do not exist in the public federal court database. It means you are sitting in a dark hole until I decide whether you are a greedy corporate middleman... or a foreign asset who needs to spend the rest of his natural life in a supermax facility in Florence, Colorado."

Carl’s face turned from pale to an awful, chalky gray. A single drop of sweat rolled down his nose and dripped onto his linen lapel.

"I didn't know," Carl gasped, his voice trembling so hard his teeth clicked. "I swear to God Almighty, I didn't know what was inside that container!"

"You signed off on the manifest route," Major Vance barked, stepping forward. "You accepted a two-million-dollar wire transfer through a shell entity in Cyprus forty-eight hours ago. We have the SWIFT records, Carl. Don't play dumb."

"It was just high-end electronic surplus!" Carl sobbed, the tough-guy facade completely shattering into pathetic pieces. "The buyer contacted me through an intermediary in Panama! They said it was proprietary drone parts from a failed startup! They said the government had abandoned the salvage rights and they just needed an overland route that bypassed the standard weigh-station scales! They paid me two million just to clear the schedule!"

"And Jake?" I asked.

The name hung in the cold air of the room like an icicle.

Carl looked up, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "What?"

"My brother," I said. "Jacob Carter. What was his cut?"

Carl laughed—a short, hysterical, pathetic bark of laughter. "Jake? That idiot didn't get a cut! He didn't even know there was money!"

I didn't move a muscle. "Explain."

"Jake is a clown!" Carl cried out. "He wanted so badly to be an executive! He wanted the title, he wanted the company car, he wanted people to think he was a big shot! I told him if he signed off on the expedited manifests without asking questions, I’d make him a vice president by the end of the year! I told him it was special medical equipment for private clinics that needed to avoid regulatory delays!"

Carl leaned forward as far as his handcuffs would allow, desperation dripping from every word.

"I gave him a ten-thousand-dollar watch for his birthday and a company credit card with a twenty-grand limit! That’s all it took! He signed every single document I put in front of him! He didn't read a single line! He was too busy bragging on social media about his new office!"

Major Vance glanced at me, his expression a mixture of professional disgust and quiet sorrow for the humiliation of it all.

Jake hadn't even been smart enough to be a paid traitor.

He had sold out his country’s most sensitive military secrets for a fake corporate title, a leased pickup truck, and a watch that probably wasn't even real gold.

"Where was the container going, Carl?" I asked, my voice deadly level.

"Houston," Carl blurted out, holding nothing back now. "Bayport Container Terminal. Slip 42. A Panamanian-flagged cargo ship called the *Mar del Plata*. It leaves at midnight tonight. The men in the yard—the contractors—they were hired through a private security firm out of Miami to escort the trailer directly to the dock."

I looked at Major Vance. "Contact the Coast Guard Sector Houston-Galveston. I want a federal interdiction cutter placed across Slip 42 immediately. Put a tactical team on board the *Mar del Plata* before the crew can scuttle the ship."

"Yes, Director," Vance said, immediately reaching for his encrypted radio.

I stood up straight and looked down at Carl Vance.

"Major," I said.

"Ma'am?"

"Take this pathetic excuse for a businessman down to the holding van. Hand him over to the federal marshals."

"And your brother, Director?" Vance asked quietly.

I turned back toward the window. Down below, an unmarked black SUV had just arrived, escorted by two Texas Highway Patrol cruisers with their lights flashing silently.