12 - Dog
The name Faisal hung in the chilled air of the War Room like the hush before an explosion.
Dog stared at Margaret. She stood in the doorway, pale and trembling, her knuckles white where she gripped the doorframe.
The perfectly composed society wife he’d met yesterday was gone, replaced by a woman who was terrified, exhausted, and yet, incredibly brave.
She had walked into a room full of hardened operators and laid bare the critical missing piece of their puzzle.
“Faisal,” Link repeated, his voice dangerously soft, his fingers already dancing across his keyboard. On the video matrix, the faces of Hank and Swede had gone completely still, their usual easy expressions replaced by grim determination.
Margaret swallowed hard, her chin lifting a fraction in a gesture Dog was beginning to recognize as defiance. “Yes. My husband, Charles, was screaming at him over the phone. About missing transfers and ledgers in Basra.”
Dog felt a dark, protective rage ignite in his chest, hot and absolute.
Charles Winslow wasn’t just an abusive, controlling husband.
He was a predator, trafficking in human lives and likely funding the very terror that had stolen so much from Dog and his team.
The notion that Winslow had targeted his own wife, Margaret, for knowing too much—or even for just existing—only stoked the fire.
Dog fought down the fierce, entirely unprofessional urge to pull Margaret into his arms and promise her Charles Winslow would never breathe her air again.
He had to stay tactical. He had to be strategic.
“Thank you, Margaret,” Dog said, his voice steady, his medic’s tone returning to anchor her in the moment. “That is exactly what we needed to know. You’re safe here.”
Flora, ever the calm in any storm, gently wrapped an arm around Margaret’s shoulders. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get you back to the fire. The boys have work to do.”
As the heavy steel door clunked shut behind them, the atmosphere in the room instantly shifted from shocked stillness to a lethal, humming focus.
“Link,” Bear barked, leaning over the central table, his eyes already assessing the screens. “Show me everything you’ve got on Winslow and his connections.”
Link’s fingers flew across the keyboard.
The main monitor shifted from a map of Richmond to a dizzying spiderweb of financial data, corporate logos, and names.
“Winslow’s public facade is spotless. Philanthropist, real estate mogul, a titan of industry.
But dig two layers down, and it’s a labyrinth.
Shell companies in the Caymans, dummy corporations in Delaware, aggressive PACs funneling dark money. ”
“It’s a classic washing machine,” a smooth, cultured voice cut in from the top right monitor.
Dog looked up at the screen. His older brother, Will, sat in the sprawling, mahogany-paneled library of their family’s Beacon Hill mansion.
Will was wearing a bespoke suit, a crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand, a look of detached intellectual curiosity on his face.
He looked completely out of place on a tactical feed—he didn’t know the first thing about black ops or SEAL teams, and Dog preferred to keep it that way.
But when it came to moving billions of dollars in the shadows, Will was a savant.
“I know Winslow by reputation, Barks,” Will continued, swirling his drink, using the childhood nickname Dog hadn’t been able to shake since prep school.
“We move in similar circles, regrettably. To the public, he’s the very definition of a saint.
Behind closed doors, however, he’s a merciless shark.
If he’s accepting funds from this ‘Faisal’ character in Basra, you can be certain he’s funneling it through prime commercial real estate and concealing the proceeds in offshore trusts.
Distasteful, certainly, but remarkably effective. ”
Across the table, Link let out a quiet snort, exchanging a conspiratorial glance with Moose, whose lips twitched in a barely suppressed smirk.
Bear just raised an eyebrow at Dog, a silent promise of future torment.
Dog felt a familiar flush crawl up his neck, knowing he’d never hear the end of this.
“Can you trace it, Will?” Dog asked, ignoring his teammates’ amusement, his jaw tight. “If we can prove Winslow is funding the cell that took down our bird, or the one that held Noor, we can drop the hammer on him.”
“Legally cornering Charles Winslow is going to be a nightmare, Barks,” Will cautioned, his patrician features turning dead serious.
“Men with his kind of wealth don’t leave their fingerprints on the murder weapon.
They use layers of lawyers and fall guys.
But if there are ledgers, as your guest observed, there’s a paper trail.
Give me twenty-four hours to rattle some cages in the sector.
I’ll find where his money bleeds, and which accounts are too hot to touch. I’ll flag anything unusual.”
“Thanks, Will,” Dog said, a flicker of something softer in his eyes, a brief, almost imperceptible nod of appreciation. “I’ll catch you later, off this channel.”
“We need physical eyes on him, too,” Dog pressed, as he looked around the room at his chosen brothers. He couldn’t shake the image of the sniper’s bullet shattering Margaret’s window. “He knows she ran. He knows she survived the hit today. He won’t stop.”
On the left monitor, Hank rubbed his jaw, his Montana drawl cutting through the tension.
“I’ve got three guys from my crew who just finished a rotation.
Ghosts. They can disappear in plain sight.
I’ll put them on a plane to Richmond tonight.
They’ll stick to Winslow like glue. We’ll find out who his fixer is, where he goes, who he talks to. ”
“Do it,” Bear said, nodding at the screen. “And I’ll reach out to my contacts at the Agency. Off the books. We need to know exactly what Faisal’s network has been up to in the last six months, and whether Winslow’s name has ever popped up on any watch lists.”
The plan clicked into place. Hank’s men would provide the physical shadow. Will would dismantle the financial fortress. Bear would handle the intelligence back-channels. Link would be the central nervous system, collating it all.
As Will’s feed winked out, Link leaned back in his chair, a grin finally breaking through. “So, ‘Barks,’ huh? I kind of like it. It’s got a certain, hmm, pedigree, Doc.”
Moose grunted. “Better than ‘Barkley.’ Sounds like a fancy dog food. Though, with his brother, maybe that’s accurate.”
Bear, still focused, shot them a look that tempered their humor but couldn’t quite erase the amusement in his eyes. “Alright, enough. We have a war to plan, not a family reunion. But I gotta admit, ‘Barks’ does have a ring to it.”
Dog just scowled, the heat in his cheeks a testament to their success. “Laugh it up. Just make sure we get this son of a bitch.”
But as the teasing subsided and Link began encrypting the new data, Dog felt the heavy, crushing burden of the task ahead. They weren’t just fighting a sniper; they were going to war with a billionaire who had the resources of a small country and zero moral compass.
Dog turned and walked out of the War Room.
The hallway was quiet, but his mind spun with thoughts of shell corporations and tactical deployments.
Beneath the strategy, a gnawing, visceral worry had taken hold.
Margaret was upstairs, finally resting, unaware or at least not fully aware of how far his darkness had spread, reaching all the way to the Syrian desert.
Dog had promised to build a place for healing, but right now, all he could think about was the war that had just followed Margaret Fletcher right to his front door.