Chapter 3 - The Ghost Trail to Ohio
The rain showed no mercy as Marissa drove through the night across the spine of the Appalachians, heading northwest into Ohio.
Beside her in the passenger seat of the heavy-duty Dodge Ram sat Marcus Vance—no relation to the broker, a cruel coincidence that Marcus had spat upon when Marissa first explained the situation. Marcus had been her lead scout sniper in Afghanistan. Six-foot-four, broad-shouldered, with scarred hands and the quiet, lethal patience of a predatory animal, Marcus hadn't asked a single question when she showed up at his auto repair shop in Charlottesville. He had simply gone to his gun safe, retrieved two duffel bags, and climbed into her truck.
Now, as the neon lights of Columbus’s industrial district flickered through the windshield at 4:30 in the morning, Marcus rack-slid the bolt of an unregistered Colt 1911 and checked the chamber.
“Pendelton’s intel solid?” Marcus asked, his deep voice cutting through the hum of the tires.
“Solid enough to sign his own death warrant if he lied,” Marissa answered. She hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but her grip on the steering wheel was steady as granite. “The business is called Buckeye Freight Logistics. Registered to an LLC under the name ‘Drew Miller.’ Andrew always was predictable. He kept his nickname.”
“A logistics company,” Marcus mused, looking out at the sprawling rail yards and rows of corrugated steel warehouses. “Good cover for moving things you don’t want customs to see. If this Vance character is running an international pipeline, Andrew wasn't just paying a debt. He stayed in the business.”
That thought made Marissa’s jaw ache.
When Andrew left Virginia, she had assumed it was the guilt of a broken father who couldn't bear to look at the ruins of his home. She had pitied him. Even while she hated him for shutting her out, she had believed that they shared the same bottomless crater in their chests.
*He stayed in the business.*
She turned off the main commercial avenue onto an unpaved service road bordered by chain-link fences topped with razor wire. At the end of the cul-de-sac stood a two-story brick office attached to a four-bay loading dock. A sign out front read: *Buckeye Freight & Transport.*
Parked in the gravel lot beside the darkened office was a brand-new silver Audi sedan.
“He’s here,” Marissa said.
“One vehicle,” Marcus noted, scanning the perimeter with thermal binoculars he’d brought in his kit. “No guards on the perimeter. Two heat signatures inside the main office. Second floor. Looks like one sitting behind a desk, one moving around.”
“We go in fast,” Marissa said, reaching for her field knife and slipping a compact Glock 19 into the waistband of her pants. “I want him breathing, Marcus. I need him talking.”
“Understood, Captain.”
They moved through the shadows with the practiced synchronization of soldiers who had cleared compounds in Helmand. Marcus clipped the chain on the side pedestrian gate with heavy bolt cutters, easing the metal open without a sound. They slipped across the wet gravel, keeping low beneath the sightline of the security cameras that Marcus quickly blinded with a high-intensity laser pointer.
The back service door was locked. Marcus didn't bother picking it. He placed a hydraulic pry-bar into the seam, gave one sharp, controlled heave, and the deadbolt sheared through the soft pine frame with a muffled *snap*.
They were inside.
The smell of cardboard, diesel exhaust, and cheap floor polish hung in the air. A set of metal stairs led up to the second-story administrative offices. Light spilled from a partially open door at the end of the hallway, accompanied by the muffled sound of an argument.
“—told you, the shipment leaves on Thursday!” a man’s voice barked. It was high-pitched, whiny, and instantly familiar. Andrew. “I don’t care about the coast guard inspection in Norfolk. The container is sealed and manifested as industrial machinery. Just get the manifest cleared!”
Another voice, deeper, colder: “The woman was at the cemetery yesterday, Andrew. Pendelton called the burner phone before he went dark. She knows.”
A sharp intake of breath. “What do you mean, she knows? That’s impossible! It’s been seven years!”
“She had the toy. The boy slipped it to her.”
“That idiot kid! I told you we should have eliminated the mother months ago!”
Marissa reached the top of the stairs. Hearing Andrew’s voice talk about eliminating a child’s mother—about eliminating *her*—shattered the last shred of humanity she had associated with the man she once loved.
Marcus stacked behind her, his weapon raised, his eyes nodding the go-ahead.
Marissa kicked the office door off its latch.
The heavy solid-core door swung open, slamming against the drywall with a thunderous bang.
Inside, two men spun around. Behind an expansive mahogany desk sat Andrew Hale. He had put on weight; his face was bloated, his hairline receding, dressed in an expensive cashmere sweater that looked ridiculous over his soft, trembling frame.
Standing near the window was a man in tactical gear—the same broad-shouldered man Marissa had seen behind the wheel of the black SUV at the cemetery. The scar along his jawline twitched as his hand dropped toward a shoulder holster.
“Don’t,” Marcus rumbled from behind Marissa, leveling his .45 directly at the scarred man’s forehead. “Move that thumb another millimeter, and I’ll paint that window with your frontal lobe.”
The scarred man froze. His eyes flicked to Marissa, then to Marcus’s massive frame and steady barrel. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands.
Andrew shoved himself back from the desk, his chair screeching against the floorboards. His face had gone the color of skim milk. His lips flapped open and shut like a dying fish.
“M-Marissa?” he stammered. “How… how are you—”
Marissa crossed the room in three strides.
She didn't draw her weapon. She didn't shout. She grabbed the edge of the heavy mahogany desk and flipped it upward with an explosion of adrenaline, sending computer monitors, papers, and coffee mugs crashing into Andrew’s chest.
Andrew went down hard against the credenza behind him, groaning as the heavy desk pinned his legs to the floor.
Before the scarred man could exploit the distraction, Marcus closed the distance, drove the butt of his 1911 into the man’s temple, swept his legs, and had him face-down on the carpet with a knee driven into the small of his back, cuffing his wrists with heavy zip-ties in less than four seconds.
“Clear,” Marcus grunted.
Marissa stood over Andrew. She looked down at the man who had held her hand in the delivery room, the man who had promised to protect their daughter with his life, the man who had let her weep over an empty grave for two thousand five hundred and fifty-five days.
“Hello, Andrew,” she said.
Andrew clawed at the desk pinning his thighs, his breath coming in wheezing sobs. “Marissa, please… listen to me! You don’t understand what happened! I was trapped! I didn't have a choice!”
Marissa knelt down on the edge of the overturned desk, bringing her face inches from his. She pulled the tiny green dinosaur from her pocket and set it gently on his chest.
Andrew looked at the toy, and a violent tremor ran through his whole body.
“Seven years,” Marissa whispered, each word dropping like a lead weight. “You let me bury a box filled with plaster and pig bones. You let me sit in that cemetery every Sunday. You took my child and sold her to pay off your poker games.”
“No! Not poker!” Andrew wept, snot and tears smearing across his face. “It was the cartel! They were going to kill me, Marissa! They were going to cut my throat in the driveway! Vance approached me… he said he had a buyer from Europe. An ambassador’s family who lost their daughter. He said she would be treated like royalty! Better than we could ever give her! She has tutors, Marissa! She has a mansion!”
Marissa struck him.
It was an open-palm strike to his ear, hard enough to rupture the eardrum with a sharp *pop*. Andrew shrieked, clutching the side of his head as blood began to trickle between his fingers.
“Where is she?” Marissa asked. Her voice hadn't risen a single decibel.
“I don’t know! I swear to God, Vance handles the compound!”
Marcus leaned down, pulling the scarred man’s head back by his hair. “This one knows. He was driving the truck.”
The scarred man sneered, his mouth full of blood. “You’re too late, Captain. The transport manifest was moved up. The girl isn't at the Orchard anymore. She was moved to the docks at Norfolk two hours ago.”
Marissa’s heart seized. *Across the water.*
“What ship?” Marissa demanded, stepping over to the scarred man and pressing the cold barrel of her Glock against his eye socket. “Give me the name of the vessel, or you won't live to see the sunrise.”
The scarred man chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. “The *Caspian Dawn*. Panamanian registry. Leaves dock forty-two at dawn. You’ll never make it across Virginia in time.”
Marissa checked her watch.
04:45 AM.
May you like
Norfolk was four hundred miles away. By road, it was a six-hour drive. The sun would rise in less than three.
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