Chapter 10: The Counter-Offensive
The FBI safehouse was a windowless, soundproofed room buried in the basement of a nondescript office building in downtown D.C.
I stood behind the two-way mirror, holding a cup of lukewarm coffee, watching the interrogation room.
The intruder from my apartment was strapped to a steel chair. A federal medic had set his broken nose and taped his ribs, but he looked bruised and furious. He hadn't spoken a single word in four hours. He carried no identification, his fingerprints had been burned off with acid, and the burner phone I recovered from his pocket had been wiped clean by a remote kill-switch the moment Vance's team arrived.
Agent Vance walked out of the interrogation room, slamming the heavy steel door behind him. He joined me in the observation room, looking exhausted.
"Nothing," Vance sighed, running a hand over his face. "He’s a ghost. Not a word, not a flinch. These Obsidian guys are fanatical. They operate like a paramilitary cult. They won't break."
"They don't have to," I said, setting my coffee cup down on the console. "He already told me everything I needed to know."
Vance frowned, looking at me. "He didn't say a word to you in the apartment."
"He didn't have to speak," I explained, gesturing to the man behind the glass. "Look at his boots. They aren't standard tactical gear. They're maritime assault boots. Designed for rapid water drainage. Look at the callouses on his left hand—those are rope burns from fast-roping off helicopters. And the knife he tried to put in my throat? It was forged with a titanium alloy used almost exclusively by private maritime security firms operating out of the Mediterranean."
Vance’s eyes widened as he followed my deductions. "You think Kaelen is operating off a boat?"
"I think a forty-five-million-dollar syndicate doesn't operate out of a Marriott," I said, my mind racing through tactical variables. "If Kaelen is in the region waiting for the payoff, he's staying somewhere mobile, untraceable, and heavily fortified. A yacht in international waters, or docked under a shell company in a private marina near the Chesapeake."
Vance walked over to a secure terminal in the corner of the room and began typing rapidly. "I can run a sweep of all deep-water vessels registered to known Obsidian shell companies docked along the Eastern Seaboard in the last seventy-two hours."
"Do it," I ordered, the military commander in me taking over completely.
The truth was settling over me like a heavy combat vest. My father’s greed had summoned a monster to my doorstep. Surrendering the foundation’s board and locking away the money wasn't enough. Obsidian was an apex predator. If they didn't get their money, they would come after me, they would come after my new board, and they would eventually hurt the veterans relying on that fund just to prove a point.
You cannot negotiate with a predator. You can only hunt it.
"Major," Vance said, staring at his monitor. "I got a hit. A 200-foot luxury yacht registered to 'Apex Logistics Holdings'—one of the dummy corps Nolan Pierce named in his confession. It docked at a private slip in Annapolis yesterday afternoon. Security is tight. Heavily armed private contractors patrolling the pier."
I looked at the map pulling up on the screen. The coordinates were clear.
"Can the Bureau authorize a raid?" I asked.
Vance shook his head, looking frustrated. "Not without hard evidence that Kaelen is on board, or proof that they orchestrated the break-in. It’s a foreign-flagged vessel. It would take a week to get a federal warrant, and by then, they'll be gone. Or they'll hit you again."
I turned back to the two-way mirror, staring at the mercenary in the chair.
My mother had built a charity to heal soldiers. My father had turned it into a target. But I was the soldier. I was the weapon. And it was time to bring the war back to the people who had started it.
"You don't need a warrant, Vance," I said softly, a cold, absolute resolve settling into my bones.
"Elise," Vance warned, hearing the dangerous shift in my tone. "You are a civilian within U.S. borders. If you engage them without authorization, the military will disavow you. You'll end up in a cell next to your father."
"They came into my home, Agent Vance. They threatened a federal conservator," I replied, turning to face him. "I'm not asking for FBI backup. I'm asking you to look the other way for exactly four hours."
I didn't wait for his answer. I walked out of the observation room, pulling my secure phone from my pocket. I dialed Marcus Reyes.
"Marcus," I said as soon as he answered.
"Sitrep, Major?"
"I have a location on the syndicate. Annapolis marina. Highly fortified."
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"Understood," Marcus said, the excitement of a new mission clear in his voice. "What's the package?"
"No package," I said, stepping into the elevator and hitting the button for the garage. "We are going to cut the head off the snake. Bring the heavy gear. We're going hunting."
