Chapter 6 - Criminal Ties & Physical Danger
The arrest of Adrian Vance and Marcus Vale sent seismic shockwaves through Boston and Wall Street.
By afternoon, trading on Hartwell Aerospace stock was temporarily suspended, but following an emergency press briefing held by Jack Sterling and me, where we revealed that all proprietary technology remained completely secure, the market reacted with surprising resilience. The narrative had completely flipped: I was no longer the "unstable heiress," but the razor-sharp corporate auditor who had single-handedly thwarted an international espionage ring within her own company.
However, the rot ran deeper than Adrian’s greed.
That evening, Luke and I sat in Jack Sterling’s private law office on the top floor of an historic brownstone in Beacon Hill. Outside, the promised rain had arrived, lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Jack hung up his phone, his expression grave. "Marcus Vale just started talking. He’s looking for a plea bargain to avoid a twenty-year federal prison sentence at ADX Florence."
"What did he give up?" Luke asked, pouring three cups of black coffee.
"The foreign broker behind Kestrel Logistics," Jack answered, sitting across from us. "His name is Victor Rostova. He’s an operative who acts as a private procurement arm for blacklisted foreign entities. Marcus claims Rostova had already paid an eight-million-dollar advance into an offshore escrow account in Zurich. Adrian was supposed to hand over the Aero-Core physical schematics during the wedding reception."
I set my coffee cup down with a sharp clink. "During the reception?"
Jack nodded. "Adrian had arranged for a courier service disguised as a floral delivery van to pick up a lockbox from the bridal suite while everyone was distracted by the toasts. That was why Adrian was so desperate to keep you smiling at the altar, Claire. If the wedding collapsed, the security protocols on your family home and the corporate offices would immediately trigger an emergency lockdown. He knew he was running out of time."
"And now Rostova is out eight million dollars," Luke deduced, his combat instincts instantly flaring. "Men like Rostova don't write off eight million dollars as bad debt. They clean up loose ends."
"The FBI has placed Adrian under twenty-four-hour administrative protective custody at the federal detention center," Jack said. "Marcus is in an undisclosed federal facility. But you two... you are out in the open."
"Luke’s safehouse in Nahant is completely off the grid," I noted.
"It was," Luke interrupted, his phone suddenly buzzing with a high-priority alert from the property’s remote surveillance system.
Luke tapped the screen, and three live video feeds popped up.
A dark, unmarked SUV was idling outside the main gate of the Nahant estate. Through the heavy rain, the thermal camera showed two figures in tactical gear using heavy hydraulic bolt-cutters on the secondary perimeter fence.
"They're at the estate," Luke said, his voice dropping into that chilling, quiet frequency. "They think we’re still there."
"My God," Jack breathed, reaching for his office landline. "I’ll call the state police."
"No," Luke said, clamping his hand down on the receiver. "State police response time to Nahant in this weather is twenty-five minutes. By the time they get there, those men will have searched the house, realized Claire isn't there, and started working their way through our secondary contacts—including this office."
Luke pulled a compact encrypted radio from his tactical bag. "Miller, you copy?"
*"Loud and clear, Captain,"* Miller’s voice crackled through the speaker. *"We’re sitting in the surveillance van two blocks north of Jack’s office. What's the play?"*
"We have uninvited guests at the Nahant perimeter," Luke commanded. "Alert the tactical field office. Rostova’s clean-up crew has mobilized. Jack, does Hartwell Aerospace still maintain the secure executive hangar at Logan Airport?"
Jack blinked, startled. "Yes. The private hangar is guarded by federal port security twenty-four hours a day."
"That's where we’re going," Luke decided, strapping on his concealed holster and pulling a heavy black trench coat over his shoulders. "Claire, grab your laptop. Leave everything else. We’re moving."
We descended via the building’s private service elevator to the underground parking garage. The air was cool and smelled of damp concrete.
As the elevator doors slid open, Luke immediately extended his arm, pushing me back into the recess of the corridor.
At the far end of the garage, twenty yards away, a silver sedan was parked horizontally across the exit ramp, blocking our path. Two men in dark raincoats stood beside the driver’s side door.
"Claire Hartwell," one of the men called out, his voice marked by a thick, flat Eastern European accent. "You have something that belongs to our employers. You make this very difficult for yourself."
Luke didn't hesitate. He pulled his weapon with blinding speed. "Drop your hands! Federal officers!"
Muzzle flashes erupted in the concrete garage.
The deafening roar of gunfire shattered the underground stillness. Luke shoved me hard behind a thick concrete pillar as bullets chipped away at the masonry, spraying stone dust and sparks across the floor.
Luke leaned out from behind the pillar and fired three double-taps with pinpoint precision. One of the men screamed in pain, dropping his weapon and collapsing against the side of the sedan. The second man dove behind the vehicle's engine block, returning fire in blind bursts.
Suddenly, the roar of a heavy diesel engine shook the garage.
A black tactical transport van smashed through the parking gate at the top of the ramp, careening down into the underground level with its high beams blinding the shooter. The van slammed into the side of the silver sedan, spinning it completely around and crushing the gunman against the concrete retaining wall.
Miller kicked open the sliding door of the van, a short-barreled carbine held at the ready. "Captain! Get her in! Move!"
Luke grabbed my hand, pulling me swiftly across the garage floor. We piled into the back of the transport van, Jack right behind us, gasping for breath. The tires shrieked against the wet pavement as Miller threw the van into reverse, swung the rear around, and rocketed out into the rainy Boston night.
I looked at Luke. His face was smeared with carbon dust, his eyes completely focused.
"You okay?" he asked, checking my arms and shoulders for injuries.
I took a deep, steadying breath, my pulse hammering in my ears. I looked down at the encrypted hard drive clutched tightly in my hands.
"I’m fine," I said, my voice hardening like tempered steel. "Where is the Logan hangar?"
"Ten minutes away," Luke replied.
May you like
"Good," I said, opening my laptop on the tactical rack inside the van. "Because Rostova made a mistake. When his men hit my estate’s network, their breach protocol pinged a back-channel IP address. I have their server coordinates. We aren't running anymore, Luke. We’re taking the whole network down tonight."
***
