Chapter 7 - The Unseen Net
Upstairs, the faint *beep-beep-beep* of the digital safe keypad echoed from Daniel’s study.
I didn't follow him. I walked calmly into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of cold water, and waited. Through the arched window above the sink, I saw a nondescript gray sedan pull up to the curb two houses down. Inside sat two men in dark suits, coffee cups in hand, watching our driveway.
Federal agents. Vance had delivered.
Ten minutes later, Daniel came bounding down the stairs. He had swapped his casual clothes for an immaculate navy bespoke suit. Over his shoulder hung a heavy garment bag, and in his right hand was his heavy aluminum zero-Halliburton briefcase—the one he always kept double-locked.
Inside that briefcase, I knew, were the bearer bonds, his emergency passport, and the physical signature cards for his Swiss shell accounts.
"I have to take the morning express up to the D.C. branch," Daniel said, checking his Rolex with an air of practiced urgency. "I might have to stay overnight at the Ritz near the capital office to finish the compliance filings. Will you be okay here, Claire?"
"I'll be here," I said softly, standing by the island counter. "Packing some of your things, maybe."
He frowned slightly, pausing at the threshold. "Packing my things? What does that mean?"
"It means you still slept with another woman on our anniversary, Daniel," I said, letting a flicker of cold anger break through the sorrow. "You don't get to sleep in my bed tonight, even if the money is safe."
Daniel smiled faintly, a patronizing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Fair enough, sweetheart. I deserve that. We’ll talk through the boundaries tomorrow. I love you."
"Goodbye, Daniel."
He didn't notice that I didn't say *I love you too.* He didn't notice that my hands weren't shaking anymore.
He walked out the front door, tossed his luggage into the trunk of his Mercedes, and backed out of the driveway, the tires crunching crisply over the gravel.
As soon as his car turned the corner, the gray sedan two houses down clicked its headlights on and rolled smoothly after him.
My phone rang instantly. It was Vance.
"He's moving," Vance said without preamble. "He’s not heading toward Washington D.C. His GPS transponder—which the federal task force placed on his vehicle twenty minutes ago—shows him taking Interstate 64 toward the private aviation terminal at Norfolk International."
"He had a private charter?" I asked, gripping the counter.
"Booked three days ago under an alias," Vance replied coldly. "A Gulfstream jet bound for Nassau, with a connecting fuel stop to Zurich. He was going to leave you holding the bag before the sun set today."
"What happens now?"
May you like
"Now, Mrs. Sterling," Vance said, a razor-sharp edge in his voice, "we go watch the curtains fall."
***
