Chapter 7 - The Federal Ally
The secure satellite line hissed with static before a gruff, familiar voice answered on the other end. “This better be good, Emma. Do you know what time it is in D.C.?”
“Hello, Director Vance—no relation to the people trying to ruin my life, I hope,” I said, managing a grim smile. “I need a priority trace and a threat assessment on an international syndicate operating under the name Meridian.”
There was a brief pause on the line as the rustle of papers stopped. “Meridian? Emma, those people aren't just corporate debt collectors. They’re high-level financial mercenaries. What on earth did Daniel get mixed up in?”
“He took out a four-million-dollar predatory loan using my family estate as forged collateral,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “And now their representative, Viktor Vance, is threatening to foreclose by Friday noon.”
“Give me thirty minutes,” Director Hayes said, his tone turning razor-sharp. “Don’t answer any more calls, don’t open the door for anyone, and if a black Mercedes is parked outside your driveway, write down the license plate and text it to me immediately.”
“I already have it,” I replied, rattling off the alphanumeric string from memory. “And Director? I didn't call you just for protection. I want to take them down from the inside.”
“Emma, listen to me very carefully,” Hayes warned. “These aren’t white-collar embezzlers like your husband. These are dangerous men who leave a trail of ruined lives and liquidated assets behind them. Leave this to the Bureau.”
“The Bureau took six months just to investigate Daniel’s trust fund,” I reminded him. “By Friday at noon, my ancestral home will be seized, and every digital file I have on them will be wiped. I’m sending you my encrypted financial dump right now. Use it before they lock me out.”
Before Hayes could argue further, I hit send on the encrypted data transfer package, uploading three gigabytes of bank transfers, offshore routing numbers, and forged collateral documents directly to the DOJ secure server.
“Transfer complete,” I said. “Check your terminal, Arthur.”
A heavy sigh echoed through the receiver. “File received. I’m dispatching a tactical surveillance unit to your location right now. They’ll sit unmarked at the end of your street. Do not engage anyone.”
“Understood,” I said, ending the call.
I walked over to the window and peeked through the blinds again. The matte-black Mercedes was still there, parked silently beneath the weeping willow tree. But as I watched, a second vehicle—a nondescript gray van—slowly turned down our street and parked three houses away, turning off its headlights.
The federal backup had arrived. But so had the opposition.
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Suddenly, the power in the house flickered and died. Every lightbulb in the study went black simultaneously, plunging the room into absolute darkness, save for the flickering amber light of my laptop screen running on battery backup.
A heavy knock echoed downstairs through the front foyer. It wasn't a polite knock. It was three slow, heavy thuds that rattled the stained-glass front doors.
