Chapter 217 Buying The Enemy A Cage
"A calculated gamble implies you know the odds," Tristan said. He stared at the small piece of black plastic resting on the kitchen island. "You are betting the empire on the word of a woman who held a gun to your face."
"I am not betting on her word," I replied. I picked up my coffee mug. The ceramic felt cold. "I am betting on her terror. Julian pushed her into a corner. He put glass in her food. A cornered animal will gnaw off its own leg to escape a trap."
Diego stood on the other side of the marble counter. Rain dripped from his dark leather jacket, pooling on the hardwood floor.
"She told the truth about the location," Diego confirmed. "Central train station. Lockbox four-two-seven. The box sat empty except for the drive taped under the metal tray. No surveillance. No tail."
I looked at Ricardo. He sat at the kitchen table. An air-gapped laptop rested open in front of him. He did not connect the machine to the penthouse Wi-Fi. If Celeste lied, if the drive contained a malicious worm designed by Julian, it would obliterate the Johnston mainframe the second it found a network connection.
"Plug it in," I ordered.
Ricardo swallowed hard. He picked up the flash drive. He inserted it into the side of the laptop.
The screen flickered. A black command prompt box appeared. It demanded a password.
"She said the passcode is her mother's birthday," I told him. I recited the six digits from memory.
Ricardo typed the numbers. He hit the enter key.
The silence in the kitchen stretched, heavy and suffocating. I held my breath. Tristan shifted his weight, his broad shoulders tensing under his dark shirt. He prepared for the worst. He prepared for the trap to spring backward and sever our heads.
A green progress bar filled the screen. A folder icon popped open.
"We are in," Ricardo breathed.
He clicked the primary file. A massive, complex spreadsheet filled the monitor. It was a maze of offshore routing numbers, shell corporation identities, and wire transfer logs.
"Look at the origin accounts," I instructed. I walked around the island and stood behind Ricardo's chair.
Ricardo scrolled to the left. "Cyprus. The Cayman Islands. Malta. The exact route the dark money took to purchase the Vanguard shipping fleet."
"Follow the money down," Tristan said. He stepped up beside me.
Ricardo’s fingers flew across the keyboard. He isolated a specific string of transactions. "Here. Payments routed to a ghost firm in the eastern sector. The dates match the hijackings of our cargo ships. The dates match the cyber-attack on Aegis."
"Does it link to Julian?" I asked. The data was useless if we could not tie the puppet master to the strings.
Ricardo opened a secondary folder on the drive. It contained digital authorization receipts. Every time a wire transfer exceeded ten million dollars, the origin account required a dual-authentication signature.
Ricardo highlighted a block of encrypted text at the bottom of a receipt. He ran it through a decryption key on his hard drive. The scrambled letters rearranged themselves.
Authorized by: J. Whitmore.
Power of Attorney: T. Whitmore Estate.
The smoking gun.
"We have him," Tristan stated. The low, lethal gravel in his voice sent a shiver down my spine. "It is a direct, undeniable paper trail linking Julian to the shadow syndicate. It proves he funded the attacks."
I stared at the screen. The evidence sat right in front of me. The key to my salvation. The weapon that would execute my brother in front of the entire corporate world tomorrow morning.
But the weapon carried a price tag.
I turned away from the table. I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked glass.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.
"Mina?" Tristan asked.
"I made a deal," I said. I did not look at him. I kept my eyes on the dark sky. "I have to pay the toll."
I scrolled through my encrypted contacts. I found the private number for Judge Caldwell. He sat on the federal bench. I funded his last three election campaigns through anonymous Johnston Group PACs. I owned a massive favor, and I never cashed it in.
I pressed dial. The line rang twice.
"This is Caldwell," a gruff voice answered. He sounded annoyed by the late hour.
"This is Minerva Hayes."
The annoyance vanished, replaced by immediate, sharp attention. "Minerva. I saw the news. The press conference tomorrow... are you truly stepping down?"
"I am calling to collect," I said. I ignored his question. I cut straight to the bone. "I need an immediate, unlogged transfer for a federal inmate."
Silence hung on the line. "Mina, you know I cannot bypass the Bureau of Prisons on a whim."
"You can, and you will," I corrected. I kept my voice flat, stripping away any room for negotiation. "Celeste Whitmore is currently in solitary confinement at the capital supermax. I want her moved to Allenwood minimum security. Tonight. I want her placed in a private cell under protective custody. If Julian Whitmore tries to reach her, I want the guards to answer directly to you."
"Celeste Whitmore?" Caldwell choked on the name. "She tried to kill you. She conspired to steal your company."