Chapter 13 - The Flight to D.C.
The red-eye flight from O'Hare to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport was eerily quiet. Sitting in row twelve in disguise—wearing a dark wig, oversized sunglasses, and a plain wool coat—I stared out the small cabin window as the glittering lights of Chicago faded beneath a thick blanket of clouds.
Sarah Jenkins sat beside me, frantically typing on an encrypted laptop while sipping black coffee. “Marcus managed to slip us through the private aviation tarmac under a cargo manifest. But if Margaret’s mole inside the FBI tracks our credit card numbers or facial recognition hits in D.C., we’ll have less than six hours before they lock down the capital.”
“They won’t track us through traditional channels,” Dr. Morris said from across the aisle, lowering her magazine. “We’re using burner devices, cash only, and zero digital footprint.”
I reached into my pocket and touched the cold metal casing of the encrypted flash drive. Inside it wasn't just the Cayman ledger or Margaret’s old cold-case files; it was a digital tapestry connecting every major political bribe, real estate shell corporation, and federal judicial appointment made in Illinois over the last twenty years. Margaret didn’t just run a financial empire; she owned half the politicians in the state legislature.
“What’s our first move when we touch down in D.C.?” Sarah asked, closing her laptop as the seatbelt sign chimed for our descent.
“We don’t go to the FBI field office,” I said firmly. “We go directly to the Department of Justice’s Office of Professional Responsibility, and we bypass the regional channels entirely by handing this directly to the Deputy Attorney General.”
“That’s a high-stakes gamble, Clara,” Sarah warned. “If the mole reaches the DOJ before we do, we’ll be walking straight into an ambush.”
“It’s a risk we have to take,” I replied, my voice unwavering. “Margaret wants a war of attrition? I’m going to drop the atomic bomb right on her doorstep.”
May you like
The aircraft touched down with a sharp jolt, tyres screeching against the wet asphalt. As we merged into the bustling crowd of the arrivals terminal, the humid D.C. air hit us like a wall. But as I scanned the faces in the crowd, my stomach dropped. Standing near the exit doors, holding a black leather folder and scanning every passenger walking past, was a man I recognized instantly from Daniel’s wedding album: Special Agent David Thorne, Margaret’s personal fixer inside the federal government.
==================================================
