Chapter 6 - MY FATHER’S SECRETRebecca ordered her agents to lower their weapons.
“His daughter is standing beside him.”
That alone did not make me trust her.
But it kept the situation from becoming catastrophic.
“Marcus,” she said, “what’s in your prosthetic?”
“You first.”
“What?”
“Who knows about Aaron’s notebook?”
“Very few people.”
“Names.”
“This is not the time.”
“Then you aren’t getting anything.”
One agent stepped forward.
Rebecca stopped him.
She knew me well enough to understand force would fail.
Not because I could physically overpower six armed federal officers.
I couldn’t.
Because the moment they forced the evidence from me, I would never cooperate again.
Rebecca exhaled.
“Fine.”
She looked around.
“Not here.”
We were moved into a secure airport operations building.
Maya refused to leave my side.
I insisted Angela accompany us until I could arrange someone I trusted.
Rebecca allowed it.
Vale and the other first-class passengers were taken elsewhere for interviews.
Price went to a hospital under guard.
Holloway stayed with his aircraft.
Thirty minutes later, I sat at a steel table with Maya beside me coloring airplanes on a yellow legal pad.
Rebecca sat across from us.
No agents inside.
Just us.
“Start talking.”
She folded her hands.
“Your father began working with Vale Strategic Logistics in 2013.”
I said nothing.
“He was not taking money for himself.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“Listen.”
So I did.
According to Rebecca, my father had discovered a network of fraudulent subcontractors siphoning millions from defense transportation programs.
Vale’s company sat near the center.
My father began feeding limited information into the network while secretly building a case.
“He was undercover?”
“Unofficially.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It wasn’t sanctioned properly.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning senior people didn’t trust the official chain.”
“Why?”
“Because they believed the corruption reached Washington.”
Maya colored quietly.
I lowered my voice.
“And Aaron?”
“He discovered your father’s meetings.”
“He thought Dad was the leak.”
“Yes.”
“Was he?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“That depends on how you define leak.”
My jaw tightened.
“Don’t play with words.”
“Thomas released real convoy information twice.”
I nearly stood.
“Why?”
“To establish credibility.”
“Did anyone die?”
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Then Mission 317?”
Rebecca looked away.
“That wasn’t supposed to be real.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your route was altered at the last minute.”
“By whom?”
“We never proved it.”
“Vale?”
“We suspected him.”
“And Holloway’s transport?”
“Same.”
The picture formed slowly.
My father had entered a dangerous corruption network pretending to cooperate.
Someone realized it.
Mission 317 became a trap.
Aaron uncovered part of the truth.
Then died before he could expose all of it.
“What was in the notebook?”
“Numbers. Names. One phrase repeated three times.”
“What phrase?”
Rebecca reached into her bag.
She removed a photocopy of a page.
Aaron’s handwriting hit me like a voice from the dead.
Across the bottom:
KING STREET — 114 — T.V. HAS ORIGINAL
Locker 114.
Seattle.
The key Price removed from Maya’s backpack.
I stared.
“T.V.”
“Thomas Vance.”
My father.
Rebecca nodded.
“We think your father hid something in Seattle.”
“For eleven years?”
“Possibly.”
“Why not retrieve it?”
“We never had the key.”
“And now it appears in my daughter’s backpack.”
“Yes.”
“Who put it there?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked at Maya.
She had stopped coloring.
She was listening.
Too much.
“Maya, sweetheart, could you go with Angela and get a snack?”
“No.”
“I’ll be right here.”
“No.”
Rebecca said softly, “There’s a vending machine right outside the glass wall. You’ll be able to see your dad.”
Maya considered.
Finally she went with Angela.
The moment the door closed, I leaned forward.
“Now tell me the part you didn’t want her hearing.”
Rebecca’s expression changed.
Smart.
“There’s a possibility Thomas is alive.”
For several seconds I genuinely thought I had misheard her.
“My father died.”
“We buried him.”
“I saw the body.”
“You saw a closed coffin.”
“I identified personal effects.”
“Not remains.”
I stood so fast the chair scraped backward.
“No.”
“Marcus—”
“No.”
“His supposed death was arranged after an assassination attempt.”
“You expect me to believe this?”
“I helped arrange it.”
I stared at her.
Four years.
Four years of believing my father was dead.
Four Christmases.
Four birthdays.
Four years in which Maya placed drawings beside his photograph.
“You let me bury him.”
“I was following his wishes.”
“You came to the funeral.”
“Yes.”
“You hugged my daughter.”
Tears appeared in Rebecca’s eyes.
“I know.”
I walked to the window.
Maya was choosing chips from a vending machine.
The world continued as if nothing had changed.
“Where is he?”
“We lost contact eighteen months ago.”
I turned.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Then why bring this up now?”
“Because two weeks ago, I received a message using an encryption phrase only Thomas knew.”
“What did it say?”
Rebecca slid her phone across the table.
IF MARCUS BOARDS FLIGHT 726, KEEP HIM AWAY FROM VALE. LOCKER KEY WILL FIND HIM.
My skin went cold.
“My father knew what flight I booked?”
“Apparently.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Not if he has been watching Vale.”
I thought about the seat dispute.
Vale insisting on row two.
Had he wanted our seats because he knew I would be there?
Or because something had been hidden near them?
“Vale knew my name.”
“Yes.”
“Did he know my father?”
“Very well.”
A knock hit the glass.
An agent entered.
“Director, hospital update.”
Rebecca turned.
“Nolan Price is conscious.”
“Can he talk?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
The agent looked at me.
“He says Gregory Vale didn’t order the stabbing.”
“Who did?”
“He says the attacker works for someone named Shepherd.”
Rebecca’s face lost color.
I caught it.
“You know that name.”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
She looked at the agent.
“Give us a minute.”
He left.
“Who is Shepherd?”
Rebecca rubbed her forehead.
“An intelligence codename.”
“For whom?”
“We never identified him.”
“What does he do?”
“Cleans up compromised operations.”
“Government?”
“Maybe once.”
“Private?”
“Maybe now.”
“Useful answer.”
“Marcus, Shepherd has appeared around intelligence breaches, contractor scandals, missing witnesses, and unexplained deaths for almost twenty years.”
“And Mission 317?”
She nodded.
“We found references.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does this have to do with Vale?”
“We thought Vale worked for Shepherd.”
“Thought?”
“Now I think it may be the other way around.”
Before I could respond, the building alarms sounded.
Not fire alarms.
Security alarms.
Rebecca grabbed her radio.
Static.
Then gunshots cracked somewhere downstairs.
Maya.
I ran for the door.
Rebecca grabbed my arm.
“Wait!”
I threw her off.
My daughter was outside that room.
Nothing on earth was going to make me wait.
I reached the vending area.
Angela was on the floor.
Alive.
Terrified.
Maya was gone.
On the glass door leading to the service corridor, someone had written five words in black marker.
BRING THE DRIVE TO SEATTLE. ALONE.
Below it:
LOCKER 114. MIDNIGHT.
Rebecca stopped beside me.
“Oh God.”
I turned toward her.
“If anything happens to my daughter—”
“We’ll find her.”
“No.”
My voice was so calm she stopped speaking.
“I’ll find her.”
Then Angela coughed.
“Marcus.”
I knelt.
“What?”
“The man who took her…”
“Did you see him?”
She nodded.
“He told Maya something.”
“What?”
May you like
Angela’s eyes filled with tears.
“He said, ‘Your grandfather sent me.’”
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