Chapter 6 - MY SISTER'S LAST CHANCEMelissa answered on the sixth call.
“Where is she?”
No greeting.
No accusation.
Only the question that mattered.
My sister whispered, “Daniel—”
“Where is my wife?”
“I'm trying to help.”
“You kidnapped her from a hospital.”
“I didn't kidnap anyone.”
“Then put Elena on.”
Silence.
“Melissa.”
“I can't.”
The world narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because she's not with me anymore.”
Agent Monroe was beside me, tracing the call through another agent.
I put the phone on speaker.
“Who has her?”
Melissa began crying.
The old version of me would have softened.
Not anymore.
“Who?”
“Tyler.”
I gripped the workbench.
“How?”
“He made me pick her up.”
“Why would the hospital release her to you?”
“Mom had me added to some emergency contact paperwork months ago.”
Of course she did.
Forged papers opened doors.
“Where did you take her?”
“A motel near Route 17.”
“Which motel?”
“The Briarwood.”
Monroe wrote it down and signaled agents.
“Room?”
“Twenty-six.”
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Is Tyler there?”
“He was.”
“Was?”
“He took her somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
I shouted so loudly dust shook from the rafters.
“STOP LYING!”
Melissa sobbed.
“I swear.”
“After five years of this, why would I believe you?”
“Because I don't want Elena hurt.”
“You locked her in a shed.”
“I didn't.”
“You knew.”
“I knew some things.”
“That makes you innocent?”
“No.”
The answer surprised me.
Not because it absolved her.
Nothing could.
But because for the first time, my sister wasn't defending herself.
“I knew about the money,” she said. “Not at first. Later. Mom said you approved it.”
“And you believed her?”
“I wanted to.”
“Why?”
Another silence.
“Because I was stealing too.”
There it was.
She admitted she'd accumulated nearly two hundred thousand dollars in gambling debt after her divorce.
Our mother paid it.
Using my money.
Then Patricia used Melissa's guilt to make her cooperate.
Fake signatures.
Forwarded messages.
Financial forms.
“She told me if everything collapsed, I'd go to prison.”
“You may.”
“I know.”
“Did you know Elena was locked upstairs?”
“Yes.”
My jaw tightened.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
Two words.
No excuses.
Nothing.
“Did you know about the shed?”
“Not until the second day.”
“And?”
“I brought them food.”
I remembered the scraps.
“You call that food?”
“Mom checked everything I gave them.”
“You could've called police.”
“Craig was police.”
“Federal authorities.”
“I was scared.”
“So was my seven-year-old son.”
She cried harder.
I felt nothing.
Then Melissa said something useful.
“Tyler has a place.”
“What place?”
“An old aircraft warehouse near Wilmington.”
Agent Monroe looked up.
“Address?”
“I don't know the number. It's near the municipal airport. North side.”
“What's there?”
“I heard Tyler and Mom talking about moving records there.”
“Records?”
“And parts.”
Monroe mouthed, Keep her talking.
I did.
“What did Tyler take from Dad's box?”
Melissa stopped crying.
“How do you know?”
“Because something's missing.”
A long exhale.
“A ledger.”
“What ledger?”
“Dad wrote down everything.”
My father.
Of course.
He had always kept handwritten records.
Every repair.
Every bill.
Every loan.
“What was in it?”
“Account numbers. Dates. Mom's transfers. Tyler's payments.”
“Where is it?”
“I don't know.”
“You just said—”
“Tyler took it months ago. He couldn't destroy it.”
“Why not?”
“Because Mom had added things after Dad died.”
I looked at Monroe.
This was new.
“What things?”
“Insurance information. Passwords. Names.”
“Whose names?”
“People Tyler worked with.”
The ledger wasn't simply evidence against my mother.
It connected Tyler to the export operation.
Which meant he needed it.
But destroying it might eliminate information he still needed.
“Where would he keep something important?”
Melissa hesitated.
“His plane.”
“What?”
“He has a private plane registered through a shell company. He keeps a locked document compartment under the rear cargo floor.”
Monroe immediately radioed someone.
I returned to the most important subject.
“Elena.”
“I told you all I know.”
“No. You know Tyler. Where would he take her?”
“He won't hurt her.”
I almost threw the phone.
“You don't know that.”
“He needs her signature.”
“For what?”
“A statement.”
“What statement?”
“That you authorized the loans.”
I closed my eyes.
Even now.
Even with federal agents circling.
They were trying to build their defense using my wife.
“What happens if she refuses?”
Melissa whispered, “That's why I'm calling you.”
My skin prickled.
“What do you mean?”
“Tyler told me something before he left.”
“What?”
“He said there are only two kinds of witnesses.”
I waited.
She struggled to say the rest.
“The kind who cooperate... and the kind nobody can find.”
Monroe was already moving.
We headed to vehicles.
“Stay on the phone,” I told Melissa.
“I can't.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, Daniel. He's watching.”
“Who?”
A noise came through her line.
Car tires.
A door.
Melissa gasped.
Then whispered:
“Oh God.”
“What?”
“He found me.”
The call ended.
We tried back.
No answer.
Monroe sent units toward the approximate phone location.
I climbed into the passenger seat of her SUV.
“Wilmington.”
“We don't know Elena is there.”
“Tyler owns a warehouse there.”
“We're checking.”
“Then check while driving.”
Monroe looked at me.
“You do understand you are not in command here?”
“I've supervised sixty mechanics during emergency aircraft turnarounds in sandstorms. I understand chain of command.”
“Then act like it.”
That shut me up for nearly thirty seconds.
Her phone rang.
An agent gave her information.
She listened.
Then accelerated.
“What?”
“Warehouse exists.”
My pulse jumped.
“Owned by?”
“Blue Meridian Logistics.”
“Tyler?”
“Shell company. But we found payments connected to Grant Aeronautical Ventures.”
I stared through the windshield.
Two hours away.
Too far.
Monroe radioed local federal agents.
I called the hospital and arranged for Julian to remain under security.
Then I called the one person I hadn't thought about since arriving home.
My old attorney.
Samuel Reed.
He answered groggily.
“Daniel?”
“Sam, I need you.”
“Where are you?”
“Driving toward Wilmington with the FBI.”
A pause.
“Well, hell of a homecoming.”
“I need every asset frozen that can legally be frozen. My company shares, household accounts, anything tied to my identity.”
“That takes court orders.”
“Start.”
“What happened?”
“My identity was stolen by my business partner and my mother.”
Another pause.
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“I'll start making calls.”
“And Sam?”
“Yes?”
“Change my life insurance beneficiary structure.”
“Daniel, there are formal requirements.”
“I don't care. Find out what can be done immediately. Nobody profits from me dying.”
Monroe glanced at me.
Good.
Let everyone understand that.
We were forty minutes from Wilmington when federal agents located Melissa's car.
Abandoned.
Driver's door open.
Blood on the seat.
My stomach dropped.
“Is she alive?”
“They don't know.”
“Where?”
“Gas station outside Jacksonville.”
“She called us from there.”
Monroe nodded.
Someone had reached her.
Tyler?
My mother?
Another person?
Then an incoming image hit Monroe's secure phone.
She didn't want to show me.
I knew immediately.
“What?”
“Daniel—”
“Show me.”
It was a security-camera still.
Melissa near the gas pumps.
A man approaching behind her.
Not Tyler.
Deputy Craig Bell.
He grabbed her arm.
She fought.
He struck her.
Then forced her into an unmarked sheriff's vehicle.
The same man Elena said had returned her to the house months earlier.
“He's involved deeper than we thought,” Monroe said.
“No kidding.”
Then another call.
This one changed everything.
A federal surveillance team had found Tyler's private plane.
It was fueled.
Flight plan filed.
Destination: Nassau.
Departure scheduled in fifty minutes.
And according to a heat signature detected inside the warehouse beside the plane, at least three people were currently in the building.
One of them was small.
“Small?” I asked.
Monroe's face tightened.
“Child-sized.”
My blood went cold.
Julian was safe at the hospital.
So whoever was in that warehouse wasn't my son.
We arrived seventeen minutes later.
Federal vehicles surrounded the airport perimeter.
Agents moved into position.
I was ordered to stay behind the command truck.
For once, I obeyed.
Then a side door of the warehouse opened.
A woman stumbled out.
Barefoot.
Hands bound.
Dark hair.
“Elena!”
I ran before anyone could stop me.
She saw me.
“Daniel!”
Then a gunshot cracked across the runway.
May you like
Elena fell.
And my entire world stopped.
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