Chapter 5 - The Showdown at the Family Home
The driveway of the Palmer family home was packed with vehicles.
Savannah’s missing convertible was conspicuously absent, replaced by Trent’s gleaming black Cadillac Escalade and a dark sedan belonging to his father, Arthur Sterling.
As I stepped out of my Honda, the front door swung open. Savannah stood on the threshold. Her hair was pulled back in a hurried ponytail, her makeup wasn't done, and the red sweater she’d worn on Christmas looked rumpled, as if she hadn't slept in two days.
"Look who finally decided to show up," she sneered, stepping aside as I walked up the porch steps. "You think you're clever, don't you, Fiona? Turning off our cards like some petty little psycho? Trent’s father brought his corporate attorney. You’re about to get sued into the stone age."
I didn't answer her. I didn't even look at her. I walked past her into the living room, my jump boots clicking firmly against the hardwood.
The room fell dead silent the moment I stepped inside.
My father sat on the sofa, looking ten years older. Dark purple bags hung under his bloodshot eyes. My mother was nervously shredding a paper napkin with her fingernails.
Across from them sat Trent Sterling and his father, Arthur. Arthur was sixty, with slicked-back white hair, expensive gold cufflinks, and the smug, unbothered posture of a man who believed every human being on earth had a price tag.
Standing in the corner by the fireplace was Sheriff Dan Corbett, in full uniform, his thumbs hooked casually through his gun belt.
"Well, well," Arthur Sterling said smoothly, glancing at my uniform. "Captain Palmer. Did you think wearing your dress blues would scare us?"
"Captain Palmer," Robert barked, trying to reassert his authority. "Sit down. Right now."
I remained standing in the center of the living room, holding Grandpa Walter’s mahogany box resting quietly at my side.
"I’ll stand, Robert," I said evenly. "You wanted a meeting. Speak."
Trent scoffed, leaning forward on his knees. "Let’s cut the crap, Fiona. We went to the county records office yesterday. Walter’s old will left the land under Robert’s warehouse and this house inside a closed family trust. You somehow managed to lock the accounts because your name was listed as secondary trustee."
"Primary trustee," I corrected.
"Whatever," Trent dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Here’s how this goes down. Sterling Freight holds an executed commercial lien against Palmer Logistics for twenty-two thousand dollars in unpaid emergency debts. Robert has signed over operational control of the warehouse to my father and me."
Trent pulled a crisp legal document from an envelope on the coffee table and tossed it toward me.
"You're going to sign the trustee release form. You’re going to transfer the master deed to Robert so he can finalize the merger with Sterling Freight. And in return, my father won't file federal interference charges against you for manipulating commercial bank lines."
Arthur Sterling smiled, a thin, predatory line. "Your military career won't survive a civilian grand jury investigation, young lady. A dishonorable discharge looks very ugly on a resume."
Sheriff Corbett stepped forward, shifting his weight. "Fiona, I’ve known your family a long time. You’re playing with fire here. Arthur’s a respected businessman in this county. You locking up their enterprise accounts on a holiday weekend borders on criminal mischief. Do what your father tells you. Sign the paper."
My mother looked up, her voice trembling with self-pity. "Fiona, look at what you’re doing to this family. Savannah’s wedding is in six months. Trent is trying to save your father from bankruptcy. Why do you have to be so hateful? Why can't you just let your sister be happy?"
Savannah crossed her arms, a triumphant smirk returning to her lips. "You always were jealous of me, Fiona. Because I stayed home. Because men actually look at me. Because I didn't have to go play soldier in the dirt to prove I was worth something. Sign the deed, take your little duffle bag, and get out of our lives."
I looked at Savannah.
Then I looked at my mother.
Then at my father.
And finally, my eyes settled on Trent and Arthur Sterling.
"Are you finished?" I asked.
Trent frowned. "What did you say?"
I placed the mahogany box on the coffee table, right on top of their unsigned legal agreement.
"Sheriff Corbett," I began, my voice cold and lethal. "Under Title 18, Section 1001 of the United States Code, knowingly facilitating the movement of stolen military logistics constitutes a federal felony carrying a minimum mandatory sentence of fifteen years."
Corbett’s eyes widened slightly. "What are you talking about?"
"Two hours ago, a convoy of commercial flatbeds owned by Sterling Freight arrived at Palmer Logistics Warehouse Bay 4," I stated clearly. "Those trucks contained twenty-four crates of night-vision targeting modules and three encrypted tactical field switches stolen from the 42nd Logistics Depot at Fort Blackwood."
Arthur Sterling’s smug smile instantly froze.
Trent jumped to his feet. "You're full of shit! That's commercial electronics! We have import manifests!"
"Those manifests are forged," I said. "And the man who signed the delivery receipt at the warehouse forty minutes ago was Robert Palmer."
Dad turned the color of chalk. "Fiona... Trent said... Trent told me it was computer monitors! He said it was overstocked surplus!"
"He lied to you, Dad," I said quietly. "Just like Savannah lied to you when she said she loved you. They didn't want a partner. They wanted a fall guy. A desperate, broke old man whose name was on the building so that when CID raided the warehouse, Trent and Arthur could claim they were just third-party freight forwarders."
Arthur Sterling stood up, his voice losing all its polished charm. "Shut your mouth, girl! You have no authority to make accusations! Dan, arrest her! She’s threatening civilian contractors!"
Sheriff Corbett hesitated, his hand resting on his taser. "Fiona... you better show me some proof right now, or I'm taking you into custody."
I didn't reach for my weapon.
I reached for the mahogany box.
I pressed my thumb against the silver hawk. The latch slid open with a soft, electronic hum.
I lifted the titanium cryptographic drive, slid my credential card into its base, and turned the high-definition screen toward Arthur Sterling and Sheriff Corbett.
On the screen was a live video feed from the Palmer Logistics warehouse.
Surrounding the building were twelve black tactical Suburbans, forty heavily armed Federal Marshals in full body armor, and three light armored vehicles from the Fort Blackwood Provost Marshal’s Special Reaction Team.
And across the top of the screen, stamped in glowing digital amber, was an active warrant issued by the United States Foreign Intelligence and Special Oversight Directorate.
At the bottom of the warrant, in the space reserved for *AUTHORIZING OFFICIAL*:
*DIRECTOR FIONA PALMER.*
*PRESIDENTIAL OVERSIGHT TASKFORCE.*
"Sheriff Corbett," I said, meeting the lawman’s stunned gaze. "My grandfather wasn't an old infantryman who forgot how to fight. He built the very agency that audits federal contractors. As of eight months ago, I command that agency."
The air in the room vanished.
May you like
"And as for you, Arthur," I whispered. "Your operations are already seized. Your bank accounts are frozen under federal security mandates. And your son is about to spend the rest of his youth in a federal penitentiary."
***
