Chapter 5 - Asymmetric Warfare
By Friday morning, news of the incident at the diner had ripped through Blackwood like wildfire.
Nobody spoke about it openly on the street corners, but the tension was thick enough to taste. Roy and his broken-legged partner had checked into the county hospital in the middle of the night, claiming they had been hit by a drunk driver in a parking lot. Nobody believed them.
At nine o'clock, Emma met Silas Kraus in the back office of his auto garage.
Spread across the workbench, among greasy wrenches and brake pads, was a complete logistical breakdown of Victor Cain’s business empire.
"He’s got four primary revenue streams," Silas said, pointing with a stubby, calloused finger at a hand-drawn map of the county. "First is his ready-mix concrete plant out on Highway 9. He supplies every public works job in three counties because the inspectors are on his payroll. Second is the commercial rental properties—twenty-six units across downtown. Third is the riverfront development project. And fourth... is this."
Silas tapped a red circle drawn around an old rail depot near the state line.
"What’s at the rail depot?" Emma asked.
"That’s where the off-book materials arrive," Silas said, lowering his voice. "Cain’s got a contract with a crooked disposal outfit out of New Jersey. They bring down railcars of industrial hazardous waste—heavy metals, petroleum slag—and dump it into the backfill for the riverfront project to cut construction costs. He charges the state for clean river silt, pockets the difference, and hides the toxic waste under the foundation of what’s supposed to be an eighty-million-dollar logistics park."
Emma’s jaw hardened. "He’s burying toxic waste two hundred yards from the town’s primary water table?"
"Right above the aquifer that feeds Martha’s well and half the farms in the south basin," Silas spat. "Vance knows about it. The Department of Environmental Quality inspector hasn't set foot out there in four years. Cain pays him a five-thousand-dollar monthly 'consulting fee' through a shell company."
Emma pulled her satellite communication handset from her pocket. She dialed Marcus Diaz at Fort Moore.
"Diaz," the sergeant answered on the second ring.
"Marcus. I need you to contact our liaison at the Environmental Protection Agency’s Criminal Investigation Division and the Treasury’s Financial Crimes Enforcement Network. Give them project code *Operation Clean River*."
"What do you have, Boss?"
"I have sixteen railcars of undocumented industrial slag sitting on siding track seven at the Blackwood depot, an unauthorized municipal backfill operation, and five years of kickback transfers between Cain Development and the county board of supervisors."
"That’s heavy artillery, Emma," Diaz said, a whistle of genuine admiration coming through the line. "If that blows, the feds will freeze every commercial asset Cain owns within twelve hours."
"That’s the objective," Emma said. "Cut his cash flow. Paralyze his payroll. Turn his private security into unpaid liabilities."
"Consider it done. Federal task force notification is going out through the Richmond regional field office. Estimated response time: twenty-four to thirty-six hours."
"Make it eighteen," Emma said. "Because tonight, Cain is throwing his annual fundraising gala at his estate."
Silas looked up, his eyes widening. "You ain't thinking of going up to the ridge, are you, Emma? That place is a fortress. He’s got half the county police moonlighting as private security, plus those mercs he brought in from D.C."
Emma folded the map and slid it into her jacket.
May you like
"Silas," she said, her voice dangerously calm. "In Ranger school, they teach you that when an enemy digs in behind deep fortifications, you don't assault the walls. You walk through the front gate when he’s busy boasting to his friends."
***
