Chapter 35
Wade’s declaration shifted something in the room, morphing the energy from shock to focused determination.
Tom opened his laptop fully. "Then let's find him."
The group gathered around the table. Gabe positioned himself where he could see the screen, Cara beside him, Wade leaning over Tom's shoulder. Reagan refilled coffee cups while Piper pulled out her notebook, ready to track details.
"Start with Levinger," Gabe said. "The tavern owner. He tried to grab us tonight. He's connected."
Tom got to work. "Robert Levinger. Age fifty-three. Owns The Rusty Anchor, purchased 2015. Personal residence in Granger Point valued at $145,000, though he’s got big mortgages on both. One vehicle—"
"Now destroyed," Wade interjected.
"Total assets maybe $100,000. The tavern barely breaks even according to tax returns." Tom looked up. "He's not running this operation. He's muscle."
Gabe's jaw tightened. He'd known that intellectually. Having it confirmed still frustrated him. Levinger was a dead end for finding David.
"So who's above him?" Cara asked.
"That's the question." Tom pulled up more screens, tax records and business filings appearing in rapid succession.
"In a smuggling operation this sophisticated, you'd expect layers.
Shell corporations. Money laundering infrastructure.
Someone coordinating between the street-level operators and whoever's actually in charge. "
"Can you trace the money?" Reagan asked. "See who's paying Levinger?"
"The tavern's books show minimal profit. If he's getting paid for his role in the operation, he’s getting cash." Tom's expression turned thoughtful. "Which means we need to approach this differently."
"How?" Piper leaned forward, absorbed despite the late hour.
Tom turned to Gabe. "David was investigating this operation for weeks. He had evidence. He was hiding in that warehouse in Haven Cove, using it as a base."
"Right," Gabe confirmed, not seeing where Tom was going yet.
Tom crossed his arms. "Who owns that warehouse?"
The question hung in the air for a beat before Gabe understood. “Exactly."
Tom was already typing. "Property records for 1247 Industrial Way, Haven Cove, Oregon."
The search loaded. A corporate name appeared on screen.
"Cascade Holdings LLC," Tom read. "Registered in Delaware. That's a shell corporation setup. Classic money laundering structure—register in a state with loose disclosure requirements, hide the real ownership behind layers of legal entities."
Wade nodded slowly. "And if they own the warehouse David was using..."
"They probably own other properties," Tom finished. "Let me pull everything registered to Cascade Holdings."
Code scrolled across the screen too fast for Gabe to follow. Tom was accessing databases that definitely required clearance he shouldn't have.
A list populated the screen. Seventeen properties across three Oregon counties.
“We start with these. They’re not going to transport him far,” Tom explained.
Gabe knew that, too. Every mile they drove with a captive was another chance to be discovered.
Tom scanned the entries. "Most of these are legitimate businesses. Two gas stations. Four storage facilities. A marine supply store in Astoria. A restaurant supply company. Good cover for a smuggling operation—explains cash flow, vehicle movements, warehouse space."
Reagan sat up straight. “Warehouses. That sounds promising.”
Both Tom and Gabe frowned. “Too obvious,” Gabe said.
Cara didn’t disagree. If she were running this smuggling operation, she’d have decoy warehouses, too. A great way to expose the enemy.
“What?" She prompted, seeing the look on Tom’s face.
“I need to dig into these other properties on the list first.” Tom highlighted three entries. "They’re different. Abandoned. No active business registration. No employees. Just land sitting empty on the books."
He pulled up the first entry. Satellite imagery loaded showing a deteriorating industrial complex on the waterfront.
"Pacific Tides Seafood Processing," Wade said, recognition in his voice. "The fish plant where David's phone was pinging. You guys didn’t have time to search the whole place.”
“No, we didn’t,” Gabe agreed. “But it’s hard to believe they’d keep him there after we showed up.”
“Agreed,” Wade added, defeat flattening his tone.
Tom pointed at his screen. "Now here’s a storage place we should check out. Bayshore Storage Facility in Astoria. Self-storage units. Closed 2018 after the owner died. Property's been sitting empty since."
"I don’t see it. Urban location," Wade assessed, studying the satellite view. "Residential neighborhood within a quarter mile. Active marina next door. Too many potential witnesses for holding a hostage long-term."
Tom nodded and pulled up the third property.
The image showed a complex of white buildings on a rocky point jutting into the Pacific, a rusted watch tower rising above the main structure with a boat house at water level. The squat main operations building was connected to the externals by covered walkways.
Text appeared below the image: Cape Mercy Coast Guard Station. Decommissioned 1994.
Wade went absolutely still.
Gabe watched the color drain from his face.
"Wade?" Cara's voice was soft with concern.
"They're using a Coast Guard station." The words came out flat. Cold. Fury barely contained. "A facility built to save lives. To protect people. And they turned it into a prison."
The rage was palpable. Personal in a way that suggested more than general outrage.
Something in Gabe's chest recognized it. The specific anger that came from watching institutions you'd served being corrupted and betrayed.
He'd felt it every time another agent broke the law.
Wade was feeling that now, amplified by whatever connection he had to the Coast Guard.
"You've been there," Gabe said.
Wade nodded, his eyes never leaving Tom’s screen.
"Joint operations training. Search and rescue operations.
Years ago, before the decommissioning." His voice was tight.
"The people who manned that place pulled drowning fishermen out of thirty-foot swells.
Rescued hikers trapped on cliffs. Saved lives in conditions that would kill most people. "
"And now it's being used for this," Reagan said.
Tom pulled up more satellite imagery, multiple angles illustrating the station's isolation. A rocky coastline on three sides with only a single access road winding up to the highway. No nearby structures. No witnesses.
"It's perfect for their operation," Tom said. "Deep water access through the boat house. Observation tower with three-sixty views—they'd see anyone approaching by land or sea. Single road makes containment easy. The buildings are already fortified, built to withstand Pacific storms."
"Yup," Wade added. "Hard to approach undetected. Easy to control. If you're holding someone you don't want found..."
He didn't finish. Didn't need to.
Gabe stared at the satellite image, his counter-intelligence training cataloging details. Distance from Haven Cove: seventeen miles. Nearest town: Mercy Point, population 843.
Cascade Holdings had purchased it in 2006 for "historical preservation."
Historical preservation. Right.
They'd turned it into a smuggling hub.
"The fish plant's too exposed," Gabe admitted. "David was watching it for weeks. They know we know about it."
"Bayshore's in an urban area," Cara added. "Too many potential witnesses."
"But Cape Mercy?" Wade tapped the screen. "Isolated. Secure. No one around for miles. If I were holding a hostage..." He stopped. Met Gabe's eyes. "That's where I'd put him."
Tom pulled up property records. "Tax records show minimal maintenance expenses. Just enough to keep it from being condemned. No business activity registered. But they are connected to utilities. Looks like minimal power and water usage. I can’t tell from these records if they’re using more than normal right now. It's sitting there, empty on paper."
Gabe studied the main operations building. Two stories. Windows on the second floor that would have been command offices when the station was active, secure rooms where officers would coordinate rescue operations and maintain communication.
And somewhere in that labyrinth, they had David. He could feel it. "If they’re running ops out of that place, they’ve got security, and cameras. Any chance you can tap in?"
Tom's expression turned calculating. "For sure. No way they keep the feed onsite. If I can find their network..."
"How long?" Wade asked.
"Give me an hour. Maybe two." Tom was already working, open windows multiplying as he accessed systems that should have been impossible to breach. "But if they're holding David there, I'll find proof."
Gabe checked his watch. Twenty-two hours and seventeen minutes until the deadline expired.
Two hours to confirm the location. Then they'd need to plan the approach. Gather equipment. Coordinate the team.
Dawn was six hours away. First light would give them cover but enough visibility to move effectively.
They could do this. They had to do this.
"Find him," Gabe said to Tom. "Confirm he's there. Then we plan the extraction."
Tom nodded without looking up from his laptop.
Wade pulled out his phone, taking photos of the satellite imagery. Documenting the layout for tactical planning.
Reagan moved to make fresh coffee.
Piper watched everything with wide eyes, absorbing details, understanding that she was watching something illegal and necessary happen in real time.
Cara's hand found Gabe's under the table. Squeezed once. Silent support.
On the screen, Cape Mercy Coast Guard Station sat isolated and waiting. White buildings weathered by thirty years of salt air and corruption.
Somewhere inside those walls, David was alive. Waiting. Hoping.
Gabe stared at the image and felt certainty settle cold and heavy in his chest.
"That's where they're holding him," he said.
No one disagreed.
Now they just had to prove it.