Chapter 3 - The Safehouse in GeorgetownThe rain was coming down in sheets when our black sedan pulled up outside a nondescript brick townhouse tucked away on a quiet residential street in Georgetown. The streetlights flickered against the wet pavement, casting long, wavering shadows.
Inside the vehicle, the heater hummed softly. Admiral Reed sat in the front passenger seat, staring out the rain-streaked window, while his driver parked discreetly behind a delivery van.
“You stirred up a hornet’s nest tonight, Captain,” Admiral Reed said, turning his head back to look at me. “Your father’s legal team is already filing emergency injunctions across three federal districts.”
“Let them file,” I replied, staring down at my hands. The skin of my left palm still bore the faint, silvery puckering from the steel hatch burn five years ago. “Injunctions don't erase wire transfers from Swiss accounts.”
“True,” the Admiral conceded, a grim smile touching the corners of his mouth. “But Richard Harrington didn’t become a multi-billionaire by playing fair. He has friends in the Department of Justice, the Senate, and half the defense committees on Capitol Hill. Dropping a flash drive on a podium is just the opening salvo. The real war starts tomorrow morning when the market opens.”
“I know what I signed up for, Admiral,” I said, meeting his gaze steadily. “When the Prometheus went down, six good people didn't make it back to port. My best friend sat three bunks down from me. I swore on her dog tags that I wouldn't stop until the people responsible were sitting behind glass.”
The Admiral nodded slowly, his expression softening with profound respect. “I know, Evelyn. Which is why you aren't fighting this alone anymore. The Navy hasn't forgotten how to protect its own—even when their own families try to bury them.”
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thick manila folder, dropping it onto my lap.
“What’s this?” I asked, flipping open the cover.
“That’s the rest of what you missed,” Reed said. “Your father wasn’t acting alone. The shell companies he used to funnel the defective supplies? They weren't registered to Harrington Logistics. They were tied directly to an umbrella corporation managed by your sister’s fiancé—Marcus Vance.”
My breath hitched. “Marcus? That corporate-climbing snake?”
“The very same,” Reed confirmed. “He’s been acting as your father’s financial proxy for the past three years. If we take down Richard, Marcus goes down with him. And if Marcus goes down, he’s going to try to drag everyone else into the mud with him—including your family.”
I stared at the documents. Photographs of corporate filings, signature verifications, and property deeds in the Cayman Islands. Celeste was marrying a man who wasn't just a corporate sycophant; he was an accessory to corporate manslaughter. And knowing my sister, she either knew every detail or was too blind by ambition to care.
“Where is Marcus now?” I asked.
“Last I checked, he was staying at the Harrington family estate in Virginia, trying to manage the PR fallout from your little stunt at the ballroom,” Reed said dryly. “Security is tight. Your father has private mercenaries patrolling the perimeter.”
“Mercenaries,” I scoffed quietly. “Private security contractors playing soldier. They wouldn't last five minutes in a real engagement.”
“Don't underestimate them, Captain. Desperate men with guns do stupid things,” Reed warned. “I want you to stay here tonight. Safehouse protocol. No phones, no unsecured comms.”
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“I appreciate the hospitality, Admiral, but I’m not hiding,” I said, gathering my coat around me. “I left this fight once because my family told me I was broken. I’m not running anymore.”
Before Reed could object, I pushed open the car door and stepped out into the pouring rain.
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