21. Sneak Peek Of Chasing Charity
Sneak Peek Of Chasing Charity
I'm a political aide with a dead boss's murder files and he's a former NFL star who just went live on national television to make sure no one can quietly disappear me. This is not how I expected to survive.
Charity: My boss is dead and I have proof. The kind of proof that gets people disappeared.
Antoine: I see her in the hotel lobby looking like she's calculating exit routes. I've done that exact calculation. Stadium crowds, hostile press. I know what threat assessment looks like on a face.
Charity: He pulls me into a stairwell and says, very calmly, that he has a safe house ready and a private jet and he would very much like me to not die tonight.
Antoine: She says she doesn't need saving. She's already saved herself three times tonight. But she lets me drive.
Charity: Forced proximity in a safe house with a man who smells like cedar and ambition is not ideal for keeping my head straight.
Antoine: She reads the files out loud to me and I watch her carry the weight of the entire political system on those elegant shoulders.
Charity: He cups my face like I'm something worth protecting and everything I've been holding together starts to crack.
Antoine: She's the bravest person I've ever met. And I've met a lot of people.
SNEAK PEEK OF CHASING CHARITY
Chapter 1: Following the Money
Steve
Blackstone Ventures HQ, San Francisco. 0900 hours.
“Tell me we’ve got more than rich Texans donating shitloads of money to politicians.”
Faith looks across the conference table at me. “At the moment? No.”
“Bugger.”
Jan’s mouth twitches beside me.
Three days ago, we were in Napa pretending we could take a weekend off after Manitoba. I should’ve known better. HAVEN and downtime have never had a particularly successful relationship.
Now I’m staring at a wall of Cunningham companies, political donations, lobbying records and photographs of people shaking hands in Washington.
Rothman gave us the name before we left for Canada.
Cunningham.
Texas oil money. Old money too. What started as oil now reaches into transportation, infrastructure, land, energy investment and enough subsidiaries to keep Faith swearing at corporate registries for days.
The interesting part is where some of that money goes.
Shane is sitting farther down the table with Verity, both of them working through the material Faith sent across overnight. If anyone in this room understands the difference between something smelling rotten and being able to prove it, it’s those two.
Harmony and Rafael are here too. With Cunningham rooted in Texas, Victor wanted people at the table who know the state from something other than corporate records.
Harmony grew up in El Paso, and Rafael spent years working both sides of the border with the DEA.
Neither of them knows Cunningham personally, but they know the territory these people have been buying influence in for decades.
I’m less patient than Shane and Verity when it comes to waiting for proof.
“Rothman didn’t give us Cunningham because they’re generous campaign donors,” I say.
“No,” Shane agrees. “But we can’t decide what the crime is before we find it.”
I look at him. “You always this cheerful?”
“Twenty years with the FBI.”
“Explains a lot.”
Verity smiles without looking up from her laptop.
Faith brings another set of records onto the main screen. “Cunningham interests have donated to political campaigns on both sides for decades. Directly where the law allows it, through political action committees, industry groups and associated donors where it doesn’t.”
Harmony studies the figures. “That part by itself won’t tell us much. Texas money and politics have been sleeping in the same bed for generations.”
“How many politicians?” Angus asks.
Felicity brings another graphic onto the screen from her workstation. “G and I mapped Cunningham-linked lobbying firms against congressional committees. Energy, transportation, appropriations, environment, commerce. They’ve had access everywhere their businesses would benefit from having it.”
Rafael looks over the committee list. “Access is one thing. What matters is whether that access changes who gets investigated, prosecuted or protected.”
“Which is legal,” Jan says.
“Exactly.”
There’s the problem.
After Westbrook, Ashford and Lockhart, none of us are inclined to ignore a name Rothman thought was worth giving us.
Cunningham having friends in Washington isn’t surprising.
Proving those friends are doing more than accepting donations is something else.
Victor studies the web of companies and political connections from the end of the table.
Ask Cunningham what happens next.
I thought Rothman was trying to frighten us.
Now I’m not so sure.
“How far back?” I ask.
Faith scrolls through the records. “The political relationships? Decades. Some of the firms change names, merge or disappear, but Cunningham money keeps turning up around Washington.”
“And nothing we can use.”
“Nothing proving corruption.”
Yet.
I get up and walk closer to the screen. Senators. Representatives. Governors. Lobbyists. Cunningham executives standing beside people who write laws affecting their businesses.
Any major corporation could probably produce a wall that looks uncomfortably similar.
Doesn’t mean I like looking at it.
“Keep digging,” I say. “Money, meetings, favors, appointments, legislation. Anything where Cunningham gets something back that doesn’t make sense.”
Faith nods.
Shane closes one file and reaches for another. “We follow the evidence.”
“Yeah.”
I look at the Cunningham name sitting in the middle of the screen.
Rothman gave us a breadcrumb.
Now we find out where the blasted thing leads.
***
Blackstone Ventures HQ, San Francisco. 0935 hours.
We’ve barely started pulling apart another decade of Cunningham political connections when Verity’s head snaps up.
“Victor.”
Something in her voice shuts down every other conversation.
She turns her laptop toward him, but Faith gets there first, sending the breaking-news feed to the main screen.
The photograph shows a man in his early sixties standing behind a Senate lectern, silver-haired, serious, American flag behind him.
Senator Davis Ellison Dead At 62.
“Heart attack,” Verity says quietly.
Something in her expression makes me look at her.
“You know him?”
“By reputation. Ellison’s been around Washington a long time. He’s one of the few senators I would’ve put on the right side of the line.”
Shane is already reaching for his laptop. “Strong record on government oversight and anti-corruption.”
I look back at Ellison’s photograph.
“Any connection to Cunningham?”
“That’s what I’m checking.”
The television feed switches to footage outside a Washington hospital. Reporters are gathering behind barriers while the anchor talks about Ellison collapsing unexpectedly at his home early this morning. Emergency services transported him to hospital, where he was pronounced dead.
Sudden cardiac event. No suspicious circumstances. Family requesting privacy.
All perfectly reasonable.
I still don’t like it.
Ten years as a cop taught me that people die unexpectedly every day. Heart attacks happen. Accidents happen. Sometimes a bloke drops dead at exactly the wrong time and there’s nothing sinister about it.
It also taught me not to decide what happened before anyone has bothered looking.
“Cause of death confirmed?” I ask.
Verity shakes her head. “Not yet. The media is citing a statement from his office.”
“So everyone’s calling it a heart attack before there’s an autopsy.”
Jan looks at me. “You think there’s more to it?”
“Don’t know yet.”
That distinction matters.
I’m not about to decide Legacy murdered a US senator because his death happened while we’re investigating a family Rothman pointed us toward. That’s how you start making evidence fit whatever answer you already want.
But the timing bothers me. So does the speed of the explanation.
Shane’s fingers stop moving.
“Here we go.”
He sends a series of records to the main screen. Ellison’s name appears among congressional committees, hearings and proposed legislation.
“He’s been asking questions about energy-sector lobbying and political influence,” Shane says. “Nothing specifically naming Cunningham in public, but he sits on committees where their interests come up regularly.”
Faith searches her own files. “I’ve got Cunningham-linked donations around him, but not to him.”
“Meaning?”
“They supported people around him. Other senators. Political action committees backing candidates on committees Ellison dealt with. Cunningham money is all over the political environment he worked in.”
Still circumstantial.
Then Verity leans closer to her screen.
“Ellison requested financial disclosure material on three Cunningham-linked lobbying groups two months ago.”
Everyone looks at her.
“What material?” Victor asks.
“Donor structures, consulting payments, beneficial ownership and expenditure records.” She scrolls. “The requests weren’t publicized. I’m finding references through committee records.”
Mercy studies the records. “If Ellison was building something sensitive, his senior aide may have known which parts mattered before anyone else did. Senior aides see what never makes it into press releases or public calendars.”
That’s more interesting.
Shane looks across at Verity. “Was he investigating them?”
“I can’t prove that.”
“Yet,” I say.
Verity gives me a brief glance before continuing. “But he was looking somewhere Cunningham probably didn’t want him looking.”
I turn back to Ellison’s photograph.
Maybe the man had a heart attack.
Maybe this morning is nothing more than bloody awful timing.
But we’ve spent too long dealing with Legacy families to ignore coincidences when powerful people benefit from them.
“Find out everything Ellison was working on,” I say. “Last six months. Meetings, hearings, staff, committee requests, anyone he pissed off.”
Victor nods. “Quietly.”
“Very.”
The last thing we need is Cunningham knowing we’re interested in a dead senator before we know whether there’s anything to be interested in.
Jan studies the breaking-news banner. “And if his death really was natural?”
“Then we’ve wasted a few hours.”
“And if it wasn’t?”
I look at the Cunningham network still spread across the second screen.
“Then someone just killed a United States senator while we were following the money.”
***
Blackstone Ventures HQ, San Francisco. 1005 hours.
We find Charity Washington because she disappears.
Verity has been digging through Senator Ellison’s staff while Shane works backward through his committee activity, and a photograph appears on the main screen beside Ellison’s.
Charity Washington. Thirty-three. Senior political aide. Washington born and raised. More than a decade working in federal politics, the last six years with Ellison.
“What am I looking at?” I ask.
“The person closest to his investigation,” Verity says. “Charity handled his oversight work, research coordination and confidential briefing material. If Ellison was digging into Cunningham-linked lobbying groups, there’s a strong chance she knew about it.”
“Can we talk to her?”
“That’s the problem.”
Felicity looks up from her laptop. “Charity’s congressional email account stopped responding shortly after Ellison’s death was announced. Her work phone’s off, her personal phone went dark soon afterward, and she hasn’t returned to her apartment.”
“Maybe she’s with his family,” Jan says.
Shane shakes his head. “Ellison’s staff were called back to the office this morning. She didn’t show.”
Then Verity changes screens.
A security image from the Senate office building shows Charity leaving with a laptop bag over one shoulder and a document case held close against her side.
“Timestamp?” I ask.
“Just under an hour after Ellison was taken to the hospital.”
“Before his death was announced.”
“Yes.”
That changes things.
Shane leans toward the screen. “What was in the case?”
“No way to know yet.”
Faith is already searching. “Unless we find out what’s missing from Ellison’s office.”
The team picks up speed around me. G starts tracing Charity’s last reliable digital activity while Verity works through Ellison’s staff and Shane checks access records.
I keep looking at the security image.
Charity isn’t running. She’s walking quickly, head up, carrying something she clearly doesn’t want to leave behind.
“Maybe Ellison told her to take it,” Jan says quietly.
“If he thought he was in danger?”
“Or she saw something after he collapsed that frightened her.”
Verity looks up. “Found it.”
She sends an internal record to the screen.
“Ellison maintained a secure working file for private oversight research. Restricted access. Charity was one of three staff members authorized to handle it.”
Shane finds the access log seconds later.
“Washington returned to Ellison’s office after he collapsed and opened the secure cabinet at 0712 this morning.”
“What time did Ellison collapse?”
“Approximately 0640.”
I look back at the image.
Thirty-two minutes after her boss collapsed, Charity accessed his private files. Then she walked out carrying a document case and disappeared.
That’s enough to change the shape of this.
“Do we know where she went?”
Felicity shakes her head. “Last reliable trace is the office. After that, nothing I trust.”
Smart woman.
If Charity took whatever Ellison was investigating and deliberately vanished, she knows something we don’t.
The bigger problem is who else knows she has it.
“Assume somebody’s looking for her,” I say.
Victor nods.
“Could be Cunningham. Could be someone else Ellison was investigating. We don’t decide until we’ve got evidence.”
Shane glances at me.
I point at him. “See? I listen occasionally.”
“Making progress.”
“Don’t get excited.”
Jan smiles, but her attention returns quickly to Charity’s photograph.
“Whatever she took, she thought it mattered enough to disappear with it.”
“Yeah.”
And if Ellison’s death wasn’t natural, whoever killed him may already know exactly what’s missing.
“Finding Charity comes first,” I say. “We get to her before whoever frightened her into running does.”
The Cunningham investigation can wait a few hours.
Charity Washington can’t.
***
Blackstone Ventures HQ, San Francisco. 1030 hours.
“Antoine’s in Washington.”
I look across the table at Victor. “Antoine Jeffries?”
“The one and only.”
That changes things.
Antoine isn’t military, law enforcement or one of our trained operators.
He’s a former 49ers quarterback who rebuilt his career into a sports media empire after injury ended his time on the field.
He’s also Ryder’s best mate, part of the BBC family, and one of the people who volunteered when HAVEN started expanding.
Add to that a bloody good DJ at Friday night happy hours.
More importantly, right now he’s exactly where we need someone.
“What’s he doing in DC?”
“Sports charity gala tonight,” Victor says. “He arrived yesterday.”
I glance at Charity’s photograph on the screen. “Does he know what’s happening?”
“Not yet.”
Jax leans back in his chair. “You thinking extraction?”
“I’m thinking eyes on the ground before we send anyone across the country.”
Antoine has advantages none of us do. He can walk into hotels, restaurants, government buildings and events surrounded by cameras without anyone wondering why he’s there.
He’s a celebrity. People recognize him. They want photographs with him. They tell their friends they saw him.
Usually that makes someone bloody useless for covert work. Today it might make him perfect.
Shane studies me. “If Charity is already being hunted, putting a civilian near her could put him in the same crosshairs.”
“I know.”
Antoine volunteered for HAVEN knowing what we do, but volunteering doesn’t make him an operator. I’m not sending him chasing armed men through Washington or asking him to extract a woman from a hostile building.
I’m willing to use what he does better than any of us.
His name opens doors. His money buys options. His media network gives him people, vehicles and legitimate reasons to move around the city.
And if we find Charity, being beside one of the most recognizable former quarterbacks in America could make quietly disappearing her a hell of a lot harder.
“Call him,” I tell Victor. “Bring him in, but make it clear he’s not playing commando. We find Charity first. Then we decide how we use him.”
Victor reaches for his phone.
Beside me, Jan hasn’t said anything. I glance at her.
She’s been quieter than usual since we started this morning. Not distracted exactly. She’s followed every update, asked the right questions and picked apart the same holes in our assumptions she always does.
But something’s off. Normally I’d know what.
After our time together, I can tell when she’s pissed off, worried, exhausted or about to tell me I’m being a dickhead. This is different. She’s holding something back, and every instinct I have tells me to ask.
I don’t.
We’re surrounded by people, Charity Washington is missing, and whatever Jan wants to tell me deserves more than a whispered conversation at a conference table.
Her gaze meets mine.
“You okay, darls?”
A tiny hesitation.
“Yes.”
I don’t believe her. I also know my wife well enough not to corner her when she isn’t ready.
I squeeze her hand beneath the table and turn back to Victor.
“Antoine?”
Victor lowers his phone. “He’s in. Heading somewhere private so we can brief him.”
“Right. Felicity, G, keep looking for Charity. Shane, Verity, Mercy, find out exactly what Ellison was investigating and who knew about it. Harmony, Rafael, Faith, stay on Cunningham. Angus and Jax, start working options for getting Charity out once we locate her.”
Everyone moves.
A few hours ago, Cunningham was another Legacy breadcrumb we were following because Rothman told us where to look next.
Now a senator is dead, his aide has disappeared with his private files, and one of ours happens to be sitting in Washington when we need him.
Coincidence has already had enough chances today.
I look at Charity’s photograph one last time.
“Let’s find her.”
The mission is on.
***