Chapter 29
Sarah attacked all three of her keyboards simultaneously, documenting every fraudulent transaction while the afternoon sun beat down on Charleston. The food truck's air conditioning fought a losing battle against the Southern humidity and her rising panic.
"Got another one," she muttered, tracking a payment from a shell company in Cyprus.
Griff stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder, his presence steady as an anchor. Through his comm unit, she could hear the team's chatter—positions, observations, the ordinary rhythm of surveillance.
"Sarah, you're building a good case," Doc said from her position by the truck's service window. "But who are you planning to send it to?"
"FBI Financial Crimes. I still have contacts—"
"Had contacts," Griff interrupted quietly. "Pemberton knew exactly who to burn."
Sarah's stomach clenched, but she kept typing. "Then the Inspector General's office. The DOJ. Someone has to—"
"Marshals," Maya's voice crackled through Griff's earpiece, loud enough for Sarah to hear. "Three vehicles approaching the Marriott across the street. Full tactical."
The Marriott. Where Axel was stationed.
Sarah's hands froze over the keyboards. "They're going for Axel."
"Axel, get out. Now." Ronan's command was sharp. "North exit."
"Negative, north is blocked." That was Deke. "Two more units—"
"South stairwell," Sarah said, pulling up the hotel's blueprint on her screen. "There's a service corridor that connects to the parking garage."
She heard Axel's breathing through the comms, rapid but controlled. "Moving."
"Lord, please," Sarah whispered, fingers finding her cross. "Guide his steps. Blind their eyes. Give us time."
Griff's hand tightened on her shoulder. On one of her screens, she pulled up news feeds, searching for—
There. Local Charleston station, breaking news banner: "Federal Marshals Conducting Anti-Terror Operation at Charleston Place Hotel."
"How did the press—" she started, then stopped. Of course. On another screen, she pulled up social media. David Pemberton's official account, posted two minutes ago: "Proud to assist federal authorities in protecting the summit from domestic threats. Security of our nation comes first!"
"That sanctimonious—" She cut herself off, took a breath. "David tipped them off. He wants this public."
"Axel, status?" Ronan's voice, tighter now.
"Stairwell blocked. Marshals on every floor." A pause. "I'm not going to make it out."
"We'll get you—"
"No." Axel's voice was calm. "If I run, I look guilty. If they take me clean, we have a chance."
Sarah watched Griff's jaw clench. Every instinct would be screaming at him to act, to save his teammate. But Axel was right.
"Axel," Sarah said, loud enough for the comm to pick up. "Don't resist. Keep your hands visible. There will be cameras."
"Copy that." She heard him take a deep breath. "Tell Olivia—"
"Tell her yourself when we get you out," Maya interrupted fiercely.
Sarah pulled up the hotel's security feeds—she might not be a hacker, but Finn had given her access codes. The lobby was swarming with federal agents. News crews were already set up outside. This wasn't an arrest; it was theater.
"There," she breathed.
On the screen, Axel walked into the lobby, hands raised but dignified. The marshals surrounded him immediately. She watched him drop to his knees, hands behind his head, making no aggressive moves even as they cuffed him roughly.
"Getting this recorded," she said, capturing every frame. "This is evidence of his cooperation."
Through the glass doors, she could see the news cameras catching everything. The marshals led Axel out, and even from the grainy feed, she could see his lips moving.
"What's he saying?" Griff asked.
Sarah enhanced the image, read his lips. "He's praying. The Twenty-Third Psalm."
Something shifted in Griff's expression—not quite faith, but recognition. Respect.
"I've got to get this evidence out," Sarah said, turning back to her screens. "Before they come for the rest of you."
She compiled everything—the fraudulent transactions, Pemberton's digital fingerprints, the timestamps showing the frame-up happening in real-time. Her fingers flew as she encrypted the file, then began sending it.
FBI Financial Crimes: Email bounced. "Address not recognized."
Inspector General: "Security protocol rejection."
DOJ Whistleblower Line: "Number disconnected."
"No," Sarah breathed, trying another. Then another. Every contact she'd built over five years at the FBI—gone. Blocked. Erased.
"He didn't just burn my bridges," she said, voice hollow. "He deleted them. I don't exist in the federal system anymore."
Her hand went unconsciously to Tank's dog tags beneath her shirt, drawing strength from their weight.
Doc appeared at her shoulder. "Try journalists."
"Already compromised," Sarah said, showing her a screen. "Look at the coverage."
Every news outlet showed the same story: "Domestic Terror Cell Discovered at Charleston Summit." Axel's military photo next to the word "TERRORIST." Knight Tactical described as a "rogue private military company with foreign ties."
"They're not just framing us," Sarah said. "They're convicting us in public opinion first."
Through the comms, she heard Ronan: "All units, maintain positions. This changes nothing."
"It changes everything," Izzy countered. "We're blown."
"No," Griff said firmly. "We're being hunted. There's a difference. Sarah, can you track where they're taking Axel?"
She pulled up federal detention protocols, cross-referenced with marshal transport routes. "Federal holding facility. Not local jail—that means this is being run from Washington."
"How high does this go?" Deke asked through comms.
Sarah looked at the evidence spread across her screens—Pemberton's transactions, Buckley's authorizations, federal marshals moving on their command. "All the way up."
Tears rose up, but she pushed them back. This wasn't only about Tank anymore, or even stopping Buckley. They were fighting the entire system.
"Lord," she said quietly, not caring who heard through the comms. "We can't do this alone. We need Your help. We need a miracle."
"Sarah," Griff's voice was gentle. "We're going to get him out."
"How? We can't even get evidence to anyone who matters. David and Buckley made sure of that. He knows exactly how I work, who I'd contact, every avenue I'd try." The betrayal hit fresh. "I trained him. Showed him my entire network when we were together. I handed him the weapon to destroy me."
"Hey," Griff turned her chair, made her look at him. "He betrayed you. That's on him, not you. And we're going to stop him."
"The news is calling you terrorists. Axel's in federal custody. We have no allies, no resources, no—"
"We have each other," Griff said firmly. "We have the truth. And according to you, we have God."
Sarah blinked. It was the closest thing to a faith statement she'd heard from him.
"Ghost," Ronan's voice interrupted. "News truck pulling up to the Marriott. They're doing live interviews with Pemberton."
Sarah turned to her screens, pulled up the live feed. There was David, looking concerned and professional in his expensive suit, talking about "the threat to democracy" and his "duty to protect the summit."
"He's enjoying this," she said, feeling sick.
On screen, a reporter asked, "Mr. Pemberton, how did you discover this terror cell?"
David's answer made Sarah's blood run cold: "Through careful financial analysis. My former colleague, Sarah Winters, inadvertently led us to them. She's been linked to several suspicious transactions. We're currently seeking her for questioning."
The monitor shook. Sarah realized her hands were trembling with rage. Her fingers found Tank's tags again, gripping them hard enough to leave marks on her palm.
"He just—" She took a breath, forced calm. "He just named me as a suspect on live television."
Through the comms, Izzy's voice, deadly: "Yo, Bear Spray. Want me to shoot him? I have a clear line."
"Negative," Ronan said, but Sarah heard the temptation in his pause.
A new alert on her screen. Federal arrest warrant issued for Sarah Winters—conspiracy to commit terrorism, financial fraud, treason.
"Sarah," Doc said urgently. "You need to—"
"I know." Sarah saved everything to multiple encrypted drives. "I'm now officially a fugitive."
Through the comms, Deke's voice, tense: "Second marshal team. Moving toward Maya's position."
"Maya, hang tight," Zara's voice cut through, calm and focused. "Finn and I have you on satellite. Kenji's pulling building schematics."
"Got it," Kenji confirmed. "Maya, see that vintage bookstore to your three? Finicky Cat Books?"
"Affirmative."
"They're renovating the basement," Finn jumped in. "Construction permit shows they're connecting to the old Prohibition-era tunnel system. The whole block is networked underneath—speakeasies used them in the twenties."
"The tunnels connect to the Charleston Museum three blocks north," Zara added. "Museum's closed today for a private event, but their loading dock is unmanned. Kenji's already looping their security cameras."
"Basement door is behind the rare books section," Kenji directed. "Turn right at the Joyce first editions. Lock is electronic. Sending you the override code now."
Sarah watched their coordination with awe. While she'd been panicking, the cyber team had found a century-old escape route in seconds.
"Moving," Maya confirmed. "I see the bookstore."
"Federal units are forty seconds behind you," Finn warned. "But they don't know about the tunnels. City records were never digitized."
"How did you even find those?" Sarah asked.
"Historical society database," Zara replied. "Finn's got a small history obsession."
"It's so cool," Finn protested. "Did you know Charleston had the most sophisticated bootlegging network—"
"Later, history boy," Izzy interrupted. "Maya, status?"
"In the bookstore. Found the Joyce section—wow, first edition Ulysses."
"Focus," Ronan commanded, but Sarah heard the relief in his voice.
"Basement door located. Code worked. I'm in."
Sarah watched the federal units on traffic cams, saw them rush into the bookstore thirty seconds after Maya disappeared underground.
"Tunnel's actually in decent shape," Maya reported. "Someone's been maintaining these."
"Ghost tour company uses portions of them," Kenji explained. "But not this section. You should have clear passage to the museum."
Through the news feed, Sarah saw Pemberton finishing his interview, looking directly at the camera. Directly at her.
"He knows I'm watching," she said quietly. "This is all for me. He's showing me he won."
"No," Griff said firmly. "He's showing us his weakness. He's so focused on hurting you, he's making mistakes. And we're going to use that against him."
Sarah wanted to believe him. But looking at her screens—Axel in custody, her own face now appearing on news sites as "Person of Interest," the team being hunted—she couldn't see how they won this.
"Have faith," Griff said, as if reading her thoughts.
She looked at him, surprised. "You're telling me to have faith?"
"Someone has to. And right now, yours might be all we've got."
"Maya's clear," Zara announced. "Exiting at the museum now."
One small victory. Sarah held onto it, Tank's tags warm against her skin, and tried to believe it would be enough.