Chapter 7 - Operation White Out
The sirens came next.
A wall of blue and red emergency lights sliced through the gray sheets of rain as half a dozen Savannah Police cruisers, flanked by three unmarked black tactical trucks from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, flooded Berth 14.
Tires screeched on the slick concrete. Doors slammed open. Federal agents in heavy body armor, armed with short-barreled carbines, surrounded the loading zone in seconds.
"NCIS! Nobody move!"
Agent Bennett—no relation to my Colonel, but possessing the same hard, bureaucratic scowl—marched straight toward Sterling. Within seconds, Sterling was pushed hard against the hood of his Suburban, his wrists secured in heavy steel handcuffs.
"Richard Sterling," Bennett announced over the noise of the idling engines. "You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit espionage, theft of government property, and federal extortion."
Sterling didn't answer. He glared at me, his eyes burning with silent, impotent fury as they dragged him toward the back of a police unit.
Spencer jogged down the metal steps of Crane 3, his boots ringing against the steel treads. He walked up beside me, his tactical sweater soaked through, water dripping from the brim of his cap. He didn't say a word. He just bumped his shoulder against mine, a solid, grounding weight that pushed back against the exhaustion finally creeping into my muscles.
"Good timing," I murmured.
"I had to take the scenic route," Spencer said, glancing at the captured crate on the forklift. "Turbines intact?"
"Not a scratch on the crates," I said. "Chain of custody is preserved. The paper trail dies with Sterling."
Agent Bennett walked over to us, holding a clipboard protected by a clear plastic cover. He looked at me, then down at my tactical trousers and the wedding ring gleaming dully in the gray morning light.
"Lieutenant Sullivan," Bennett said, extending a hand. "Your boy Hayes sent over the digital packet forty-five minutes ago. Immaculate work. If your unit hadn't flagged this within four hours of the breach, those micro-turbines would have been on an Iranian-flagged freighter out of Casablanca by Friday."
"Just doing the inventory, Sir," I said, shaking his hand.
Bennett gave a dry, humorless smirk. "That’s one hell of an inventory check. What about the sister?"
I turned toward our truck, still parked fifty yards away by the smashed pallets.
Through the rain-streaked rear window, I could see Freya sitting there. She was crying, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. She looked small. Pathetic. The phantom menace that had haunted my childhood, the golden child who had consumed every scrap of resource and affection my parents had to give, was nothing more than an accomplice in the back of a squad car.
"She’s in the truck," I said, my voice flat. "Take her. Treat her like any other asset belonging to the conspiracy."
Bennett nodded to two of his agents. "Secure the vehicle. Process the suspect."
As the agents walked toward our truck, I felt a strange, profound lightness settle into my chest. For years, I had operated under the assumption that I had to outrun them—that if I just ran fast enough, achieved enough rank, saved enough money, I could build a wall high enough to keep their dysfunction from spilling over into my life.
May you like
I was wrong. You don't build walls against rot. You excise it. You burn it out at the root.
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