Chapter 18 - Sins of the Matriarch
While our boots struck the metal decks of the freighter, eighty miles inland, Lieutenant Miller’s element was descending upon the pine-surrounded estate in Dismal Swamp.
Through the tactical radio link routed through my earbud, I could hear the cold, crisp reality of the secondary raid unfolding simultaneously.
*"Breach, breach, breach!"* Miller’s voice echoed between the bursts of suppressed gunfire. *"Three hostiles down in the foyer. Moving to the second floor study. Flashbang out!"*
A loud, concussive *BANG* vibrated through the radio feed.
*"Marcus Vance is secured!"* Miller reported seconds later, breathing heavily. *"Subject was attempting to burn hard drives in the fireplace. We extinguished the blaze. Manifests are eighty percent intact. Admiral, you won't believe what’s in these files."*
"Report, Miller!" I commanded, ducking behind a ventilation cowl as a mercenary fired a burst from a lower companionway. Hayes returned fire instantly, eliminating the shooter.
*"It wasn't just Derek and Marcus,"* Miller revealed over the link. *"The syndicate's original contact was established twelve years ago... by Patricia Vance herself. She used her family’s political connections to bury naval audits on foreign flagged vessels. She didn't just accept a bribe to kill your father, Admiral—she built the pipeline with Derek after Richard tried to cut off her spending accounts a decade ago."*
The revelation was a hammer blow to my gut, even as bullets sparked off the steel bulkhead near my head.
The mother who had looked at me with such pure, unadulterated contempt—who had called me a disgraceful, low-class parasite because I joined the military instead of marrying an investment banker—had been a traitor to her country for over a decade.
She had despised my uniform not because it embarrassed her social vanity, but because every ribbon on my chest was a direct threat to the criminal empire keeping her in luxury jewelry and coastal estates.
"Copy that, Miller," I replied, my voice steady, freezing cold. "Bag the drives. Hand Marcus over to the Department of Justice. We’re taking the bridge now."
I severed the channel and stepped out onto the exterior bridge wing.
The door to the ship’s wheelhouse was locked from the inside, barricaded with iron cargo bars.
"Hayes, shape charge on the latch," I ordered.
May you like
Hayes slapped a strip of C4 adhesive across the heavy latch mechanism, inserted the detonator, and stepped back around the steel frame. "Fire in the hole!"
***
