Chapter 7 - THE TACTICAL COUNTER
By 6:00 AM, the rain had stopped, leaving the ravine shrouded in a thick, cold mist that smelled of wet earth and gunpowder. The three men from the Whitmore Security Division were lined up against the cabin wall, their tactical gear stripped down to their undershirts, their faces grey from the morning chill.
I sat on an upturned milk crate in front of them, my cane resting across my knees, a cup of hot coffee in my hand. Marcus was standing behind them with his digital camera, taking high-resolution photos of their corporate credentials and the serial numbers on their tactical vests.
"You guys are a long way from Richmond," I said, taking a slow sip. "Your corporate license doesn't cover operations in the state of Ohio. That makes this an armed home invasion, a conspiracy to abduct a state witness, and a violation of the federal Anti-RICO statutes."
The lead guard, a burly guy named Henderson who was nursing a heavily bandaged forearm, looked up at me with a mixture of pain and respect. "We just follow the work orders, Sergeant. The work order came from the executive vice president’s desk—Graham Whitmore. It was labeled as an 'asset recovery extraction.' We didn't know the girl was here voluntarily."
"She’s my daughter, Henderson," I said softly, leaning forward until my face was six inches from his. "And if anyone touches her again, the next phone call I make won't be to the local sheriff. It'll be to the Internal Revenue Service’s criminal investigation division. I’ve been looking through your company’s public filings while you guys were sitting in the mud. You’ve been washing your security expenses through a real estate subsidiary in Delaware."
Henderson blinked, his jaw tightening. He looked at Marcus, who was nodding grimly as he uploaded the photos to a secure cloud server.
"Graham Whitmore doesn't care about you, Henderson," Emily said, stepping onto the porch. The purple bruise on her cheek had faded into a dull yellow, but her posture was straight, her voice carrying the clear, clinical authority of a medical professional. "When the federal authorities come down on this company, he’ll claim he didn't know anything about this operation. He’ll say you guys were rogue employees trying to protect a corporate asset on your own initiative."
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"She’s right," Henderson muttered, looking down at his boots. "The kid is a coward. He stays in the house while his mother handles the bank accounts. He only comes out when he’s got a bottle of scotch in his belly."
"Then let's give him something to talk about with his mother," I said, standing up. My hip felt better today, the adrenaline of the night before acting as a natural block against the arthritis. "Marcus... load them into the back of their own transport van. We’re going to make a little trip back to Charlottesville. I think it’s time we delivered our report to the board of directors."
