Chapter 5 - The Leak in the Foundation
Charles Sterling did not become the king of Sterling Falls by being stupid.
He sat behind a massive mahogany desk in the library of his estate, the walls lined with first-edition books he had never read and the heads of deer he had paid other men to track for him. He was sixty-eight, with a mane of silver hair and the sharp, hawkish nose of a predator. He wore a gold signet ring on his right hand, which he was currently tapping against a crystal glass of twenty-year-old bourbon.
Across from him sat his wife, Evelyn, her face tight from too many plastic surgeries, her fingers glittering with diamonds as she held her telephone. Miranda sat in the corner on a leather sofa, her eyes bloodshot, her hands shaking so badly she could barely keep her gin glass steady.
“It’s a temporary setback,” Evelyn said, her voice sharp as a razor. “Charles, call the governor. We gave his campaign fifty thousand dollars last June. Tell him to get these federal marshals off our land. It’s an embarrassment.”
“The governor isn't answering his private line,” Charles said, his voice a low, rumbling growl. “Neither is the regional director of the Forest Service. This didn't come from Raleigh, Evelyn. This came from Washington. Someone used a defense protocol to bypass the state courts. Landry!”
Sheriff Thomas Landry stood by the door, his hat in his hand, looking smaller than he had in the hospital hallway. “Charles, I tried to check the county server to see if they filed any local liens. The screen is completely black. Every computer in the department has been locked down by some kind of ransomware. It just says 'Audit in Progress' across the monitor.”
Suddenly, the large television on the wall—usually tuned to the financial news—flickered. The screen went dark for two seconds, then a video began to play.
It was the fifty-four-second recording from the driveway.
Rowan’s face was perfectly clear in the high-definition playback. The sound of the tire iron hitting Lily’s ribs echoed through the expensive library, loud and wet. Then the camera panned up to the window, showing Miranda reaching for the curtains and pulling them shut.
“Turn it off!” Miranda shrieked, dropping her glass onto the Persian rug, the gin soaking into the wool. “Charles, turn it off! Who has that? How did they get that?”
Before anyone could move, the video cut to a split-screen. On the right side, a series of documents began to scroll—bank statements from Apex Ridge Holdings, wire transfer receipts with Charles’s signature, and a detailed list of monthly cash disbursements to 'T. Landry – Consulting.'
At the bottom of the screen, a red digital clock was ticking down from forty-eight hours. Above it were the words: The Truth is Local. The Judgment is Federal.
“It’s him,” Evelyn whispered, her face turning gray behind her makeup. “It’s that soldier boy. Marcus. He’s doing this.”
“He’s a first sergeant in the infantry, Evelyn!” Charles shouted, slamming his glass onto the desk, cracking the wood. “He doesn't have the clearance or the brains to hack a county server or freeze a federal logging tract! Who is backing him? Who the hell is he working for?”
The phone on Charles’s desk rang. The caller ID showed a number from the Pentagon.
Charles snatched the receiver. “This is Charles Sterling. Who is this?”
“Mr. Sterling,” a calm, authoritative voice replied. It was Colonel Arthur Mitchell. “I am the director of logistical compliance for the Department of the Army. We are currently conducting an audit of your supply chain viability under the Defense Production Act. It appears your enterprise is no longer stable enough to fulfill federal obligations.”
“Listen to me, Colonel,” Charles hissed. “Whatever Marcus Vance told you, he’s a disgruntled ex-husband trying to cause a domestic dispute. My family is prominent. We have deep roots in this state.”
“Your roots are currently being exposed to the sun, Mr. Sterling,” Colonel Mitchell said. “And when the roots of an old tree rot, the whole thing falls over. You have forty-eight hours before the Internal Revenue Service and the Department of Justice unseal the indictments. I suggest you find a very good criminal attorney. Not the ones you buy dinner for on Sundays.”
The line went dead.
Charles slowly lowered the phone. He looked at Landry, who was staring at the television screen where his own bank routing numbers were still scrolling in bright green text.
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“Charles...” Landry whispered, his voice trembling. “They have my names. They have the dates. If the feds see this... I’m going to Atlanta. I’m going to a federal pen.”
“Shut up, Thomas,” Charles said, his hand shaking as he reached for the bourbon bottle. He looked at his daughter, Miranda, who was curling into a ball on the sofa, sobbing into her hands. “Get Rowan and Jaxson. Bring them here right now. We’re going to find this soldier boy, and we’re going to finish this before the mountain falls.”
