Chapter 20
Six hours later, after a shower, a shave and a little rack time, Griff stood at Doc's kitchen window, cataloging every detail. Like the rest of his team, he owed his survival to noticing what others missed.
Hot water, clean clothes from Doc’s apparently endless stash and good food in his belly had done wonders.
Even more so for Sarah, clearly. She’d dumped her filthy truck-stop wear for a pair of silky pajama bottoms and some kind of flowy tunic that highlighted her flawless skin.
The kinds of clothes she looked born to wear.
After a quick recon, he could absolutely give Doc’s set up five stars.
Even Christian, Knight Tactical’s safehouse specialist, would be impressed.
Motion sensors hidden in the garden beds.
Reinforced window frames—bulletproof, probably level III.
Security cameras positioned to eliminate blind spots.
The woman who claimed to be a retired economics professor had built herself a fortress disguised as a Virginia farmhouse.
"Griffin. Stop casing my home and help us," Doc said without looking up from where she and Sarah huddled over laptops at the dining table. "Your paranoia isn't speeding up the decryption."
"It's not paranoia if they're actually trying to kill us."
"Agreed. But standing there glowering won't help us figure out who 'they' actually are."
Sarah's fingers hadn't stopped moving across her keyboard for the past hour, as she occasionally muttering about hash patterns and authentication protocols. She'd pulled her hair into a messy bun, glasses sliding down her nose as she leaned closer to the screen.
His gut tightened. She looked so soft. Innocent. Too good to be touched by such evil.
"Got something," she said suddenly. "These routing numbers all have embedded authentication codes. If I can just..." Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. "That's weird."
"What?" Griff crossed the room in three strides.
"These authorization codes—they're all following a pattern, but..." She pulled up multiple transactions. "Look at the timing. I’ve linked the payments from Stillwater to a couple deaths besides Tank’s. I’m sure the others will prove to be the same.
But the payments to Stillwater were all made during Senate recess periods. "
Doc leaned over her shoulder.
"Here, and here." Sarah highlighted dates. "Spring recess, August recess, winter break. Someone's authorizing payments when Congress isn't in session.”
“Less oversight,” Doc added.
This thing went deeper than even he’d imagined. "So it's a senator?"
"Not necessarily. Could be senior staff. But look at this..." Sarah's voice rose with excitement. "I found this weeks ago and couldn't make sense of it. Someone at Stillwater got sloppy."
She pulled up a different screen. "This is from the official DOD procurement system. An invoice from Stillwater Defense Solutions for 'security consulting services.' Eight million dollars, dated December 18th."
"So?" Griff asked.
"So look at this." Sarah pulled up the black budget transactions. "December 17th, an eight-million-dollar payment authorized from the Senate Intelligence subcommittee's black budget. Same amount, one day apart."
Doc's eyes sharpened. "They double billed."
"Exactly. Someone at Stillwater submitted it through official channels by mistake, probably trying to maximize their take.
But it creates a paper trail." Sarah tapped the monitor.
"The official invoice was cancelled two days later, marked as 'submitted in error,' but the record remains. That single mistake bridged both ledgers—the Senate’s black budgets and Stillwater’s bribery accounts. It’s the proof that ties them together. "
The proof his team needed to take down the rest of the conspiracy. "Can you prove it's the same payment?"
"The reference numbers. Look—" Sarah highlighted a string of digits. "The black budget payment has a project code. The Stillwater invoice references the same code in the 'services rendered' field. Someone was lazy, used the same tracking number."
He squinted at the lines of data. "So who authorized the black budget payment?”
“Exactly,” Sarah murmured. “The December 17th authorization happened during winter recess. Only four people have that authority level."
She accessed public records, cross-referencing schedules. "Senator Harrison was in Japan. Senator Martinez was recovering from surgery. Senator Walsh was at his daughter's wedding in California. That leaves..."
"Buckley," Doc said quietly. "Thomas Buckley."
Sarah pulled up the news article: "Senator Buckley Remains in Washington During Recess for Defense Briefings."
"He's the only one with access, authority, and presence." Sarah's voice was hollow. "And look at this pattern—every major payment correlates with his schedule. Only when he's in D.C., only during recess periods."
Doc eyed her own tablet. "The authorization code format—TB-4479. Senate protocols use initials plus badge numbers. Thomas Buckley, Senate ID 4479."
"He funds Stillwater through black budgets,” Sarah said. “They handle the wet work. Which explains what I saw earlier—their bribes. Buckley’s funds flow in, Stillwater pushes bribes out to keep the pipeline open. Everyone's hands stay technically clean."
"Except they're not clean," Griff gripped the table hard enough to crack wood. "Buckley paid for Tank's murder."
"A stupid invoice error," Sarah added quietly. "One moment of greed or carelessness, and they exposed everything."
Sarah's hand covered his—brief, warm, grounding. "There's more. Look at this pattern. Every payment preceded a veteran's disappearance. All had security clearances. The biological passport scheme never died. Buckley's running it now."
"Or protecting whoever is," Doc said, pulling up another screen. "These transactions go back three years at least. This is treason on a massive—"
The television in the corner blazed to life—Doc had it monitoring news channels. Senator Thomas Buckley's face filled the screen.
"—proud to announce that the Charleston Summit on Defense Innovation will convene a week from tomorrow," Buckley announced. "We're bringing together leaders from defense, intelligence, and private security to reshape America's protective capabilities for the next generation."
Griff flinched. "My Knight Tactical team is contracted for summit security. Ronan confirmed it weeks ago. Full team deployment."
"It's a trap." Doc muted the television though Buckley's smiling face remained.
"It's a massacre." Sarah pulled up more files.
"Look—massive payments scheduled for the day after the summit ends.
All coded 'Charleston Option.' They're going to kill your team and blame it on terrorists. Then, the payouts will refill Stillwater’s coffers and fund the next wave of bribes. The cycle keeps itself alive."
She turned to face him, her dark eyes wide. "You have to call them."
"If I call them—"
"They're already targeted." Doc's tone was surgical. "Your silence isn't protecting them anymore. It's ensuring their deaths."
Tank. Who'd believed in doing the right thing even when it was hard. Who'd died alone because Griff hadn't been there.
Of course, he had to tell them. If nothing else, they deserved to help take down the rest of Tank’s killers. But more than that, he needed them. Desperately. He couldn’t protect Sarah alone, much less crush a US Senator.
"I'll need a secure connection," he said roughly.
"Already set up." Doc gestured to his laptop. "Military-grade encryption, bounced through servers that don't officially exist." She stood, suddenly all business. "I also have resources you'll need. Alternative transportation, safe houses, clean documents."
"CIA?" he asked.
"Among other things. Does it matter?"
"It does if you're coming with us."
"Oh, I'm definitely coming." Doc's smile was sharp as a blade. "I have justice of my own to enact. Besides, I haven’t had a real mission in far too long. Do you have any idea how tedious actual economics papers are? Plus, I've always wanted to see Charleston in spring."
"This isn't a tourist trip."
"No. It's a chance to stop these criminals from murdering good people." The humor left her voice. "I may be retired, but I still have opinions about senators who betray their country."
Sarah was already pulling up files, organizing evidence. "We'll need to move fast once you contact them. Buckley might have their communications monitored."
"Let him monitor this." Griff stared at his sat phone, fingers hovering over the screen. Six months of silence about to end. Six months wasted, with him thinking he was shielding them.
"Wait," Sarah said. "They'll want to see you."
She was right. Voice wouldn't be enough. Not after he'd ghosted them for so long.
He pulled up the secure video link Finn had sent months ago—still active, still waiting. His reflection in the black screen looked awful. Exhaustion carved into every line, the graze on his shoulder visible through his shirt, the months of haunting isolation written across his face.
Doc squeezed his shoulder—brief, maternal. "You're doing the right thing."
"Bit late for right."
"Better late than dead," Sarah said, then covered her mouth. "Sorry, that came out wrong."
Despite everything, Griff snorted. "Tank would have laughed at that."
"My guess is your friend would have made it into a team joke," Doc said. "Now call your people. We have a massacre to prevent."
Griff initiated the connection, watching the encryption protocols engage. In a few seconds, he'd see their faces. Have to explain. Have to admit he'd failed them by trying to protect them.
"I'll be right here," Sarah said quietly, positioning herself out of camera range but where he could see her.
The screen flickered, connection established.