Chapter 206 Bribing the Fake Federal Marshals
"If you die in that jungle," I said, gripping the phone until my knuckles ached, "I will sell your vintage cars for scrap metal. Every single one."
Static hissed through the speaker. A low, rough laugh followed.
"Keep the cars, Mina," Tristan replied. His voice sounded distant, filtered through a satellite relay thousands of miles away. "They deserve a ruthless owner."
I sat in the back of the armored SUV. The engine idled. Outside the tinted glass, the brick facade of St. Jude’s Academy looked peaceful under the morning sun. Inside the vehicle, the air felt thin and cold.
"Where are you?" I asked. I closed my eyes. I pictured his face. I needed to anchor him to me.
"Ten minutes from the drop zone," Tristan said. The hum of helicopter blades bled through the connection. "The jungle canopy is thick. We go in on foot from the river. Diego has the perimeter secured. I am coming home to you, Mina. I swear it on my life."
The raw emotion in his tone shattered the remaining ice in my chest. We spent hours screaming at each other yesterday. He broke my trust. He staged an army behind my back. But listening to the man fly into a war zone for our family, the anger vanished. Only the bone-deep terror of losing him remained.
"I need you here," I whispered. I abandoned the Chairman persona. I spoke as his wife. "Elias needs his father. Do not take risks. Get Alexander and get out."
"I love you," Tristan promised. The connection crackled. "You are my compass. Keep our boy safe. I am going dark."
The line clicked. Silence filled the cabin.
I lowered the phone. I stared at the blank screen. A sharp, physical ache settled in my ribs. He was gone. He stepped into the shadows, leaving me to hold the fortress in the light.
I looked out the window. Four unmarked Johnston security vehicles boxed my SUV in. Twelve armed guards patrolled the school perimeter. After Julian Whitmore’s threat on the phone, I took no chances. I turned the primary school into a military encampment.
Vargas, the tactical lead who replaced Marcus, sat in the front passenger seat. He tapped his earpiece.
"Perimeter is quiet, Madam Chairman," Vargas reported. "Recess begins in five minutes. The principal agreed to keep Elias’s class inside the library."
"Good," I said. I checked the heavy sidearm resting in my purse. "Nobody enters the building without my authorization. Not the parents. Not the staff."
Vargas nodded. He looked out the windshield.
A loud, piercing screech shattered the morning quiet.
I flinched. The sound echoed across the pavement. Two massive, black vans tore around the corner of the street. They did not slow down. They smashed through the iron gates of the school courtyard, tearing the metal off the hinges.
"Contact!" Vargas shouted. He kicked his door open.
The Johnston guards drew their weapons. They swarmed the courtyard, forming a steel wall between the black vans and the school entrance.
The vans slammed on their brakes. The side doors slid open.
A dozen men poured out. They did not wear syndicate tactical gear. They wore standard federal windbreakers. They carried sidearms. They moved with the aggressive, coordinated precision of a strike team.
"Federal marshals!" the lead man yelled. He held up a thick manila envelope. "Stand down! We have a court-mandated extraction order!"
Vargas kept his rifle raised. He did not flinch. "Show me the badge, or I put a hole in your chest!"
I shoved my car door open.
"Mina, stay in the vehicle!" Vargas ordered.
I ignored him. I stepped onto the pavement. The cold wind bit my face. I recognized the play. Julian Whitmore did not send assassins. He sent the law. He filed the injunction this morning. He bought a corrupt judge to sign an emergency custody order, claiming Elias was in danger from a fraudulent mother. Julian wanted to rip my child out of my hands in broad daylight.
I walked past my guards. I stood in the center of the broken courtyard.
"I am Minerva Hayes," I announced. My voice carried over the wind. It held no fear. "You are trespassing on private property."
The lead man sneered. He stepped forward. He looked at my expensive suit. He looked at the armed men flanking me.
"We are serving a federal warrant, Mrs. Hayes," the man stated. He slapped the manila envelope against his palm. "Julian Whitmore was granted emergency guardianship of the minor, Elias Johnston, pending a full investigation into your corporate and genetic fraud. We are here to take the boy."
"You are not federal marshals," I said. I looked at the man’s boots. They lacked the standard-issue polish. I looked at his eyes. I saw the cold, mercenary calculation. "You are private contractors. Julian bought you the windbreakers."
"The paper is real," the man countered. He took another step toward the school doors. "And if your men fire on us, you go to prison for assaulting court officers. Tell them to drop the guns. Bring the boy out."
He thought the law offered him a shield. He thought I would cower in the face of a legal document. He forgot I spent three years married to Tristan Johnston. I learned how to dismantle the rules.
I reached into my purse. I pulled out my phone. I dialed Ricardo. He answered on the first ring.
"Transfer five million dollars into a holding account," I commanded into the phone. I kept my eyes locked on the mercenary leader. "Have it ready for immediate wire transfer."
I lowered the phone. I took a step toward the man.
"You work for Julian," I said. My voice dropped to a lethal, flat cadence. "Julian pays you a day rate. I am the Chairman of the Johnston Group. I control a fifty-billion-dollar empire. I will give you five million dollars right now to turn around, get back in your van, and drive away."
The man stopped. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face. The men behind him exchanged nervous glances. Greed is a universal language.
"I have a contract," the man argued, though his tone lost its edge.