Chapter 27
Gabe
I meet Dahlia Evans in a park. Given it’s January and the temps are in the low forties, we have the park to ourselves. It’s cloudy and the forecast calls for rain within the hour.
When I greet her, we shake hands, but thanks to her mittens, I take nothing away from the exchange—zero personality assessment.
Her hair is a mix of curly and wavy, steely gray with strands of white mixed in, as well as every shade between the two.
She’s wearing sunglasses, which might be odd on an overcast day, but even though it’s cloudy, there is a bright hue that forces me to squint if I look skyward.
She’s dressed in a long skirt and bundled in a coat.
She’s not what I imagined Dad’s colleague to look like. She met Mom once, years ago, shortly after his funeral service. She hadn’t been able to make the service, but she reached out to Mom and they ended up meeting for coffee.
Personal interest aside, by the time we’re both seated on the park bench, I’ve determined that this woman wouldn’t knowingly aid a human trafficking ring.
She’s dressed well enough, but she’s not dressed like someone who retired with millions.
Her mittens and scarf don’t even match—appearances aren’t something she stresses over.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” I say.
“It’s not a problem.” She scans the area like she’s expecting someone, but it’s just us and the bare trees.
“How has your mom been?”
“She’s good,” I say, the question an unnecessary reminder of our ties. “She says to tell you hi.”
“You told her we’re meeting?” If I’m not mistaken, there’s censure in her tone.
“Yes.” I can’t see her eyes, and I wish I could. It would allow for a better read, but I take in her pastel-colored mittens, swallow, and go for it. “She doesn’t share the same degree of curiosity that I do, but—”
“She understands yours.” She presses her lips together, and cocks her head, as if deciding. “I’ll tell you what I know, but I don’t know that it will bring you the relief you’re seeking.”
“I’m grateful for anything you’re willing to share.”
“Hold the gratitude. If ever called to testify, I would refuse. And I don’t know much of value. He didn’t die in the field. Your father died in prison.”
I don’t speak for a moment. Prison. Not the field. Not the way they told us.
“Prison,” I repeat, because saying it makes it real in a way that hearing it doesn’t.
I came here hoping for information on who killed him—not this.
“It’s not unusual for captured intelligence personnel to land in prison. Something you might want to consider before you sign with the NSA.” She sniffs and rubs the top of her nose with a mitten. “I’d been told an agreement was brokered. That’s how it works. Trades—for people, usually.”
“With what country?”
“Russia. He was trying to cross into Poland—almost made it—when they picked him up. They had him for months.”
That information tracks. Mom hadn’t heard from him in a couple of months. It wasn’t unusual for him to go radio silent, as she called it, but it had been an unusually long period of time when an officer showed up at our door.
I want her to say more, so I prod with, “Mom said it was unusual to go so long without hearing from him.”
“We were sent to retrieve an exposed asset.”
“We? You were with him?”
“We were holed up in a hotel near the border, waiting for a window to cross. He was apprehended in the lobby—must have been made before we ever got that far. The asset and I escaped out the back.”
“He was in a Russian prison?” I ask, confirming. “And you heard a deal had been made, but then…”
“It was announced he died in the line of fire.”
“And that could be true, if he died in prison.”
“I’d say it’s more likely either he died in prison for health reasons, or someone didn’t want the deal to be brokered. There’s a good chance you’ll never learn what really happened. It’s unlikely anything is documented. If that’s your reason for joining the NSA…” She lets it trail.
“Well, thank you. For sharing.” The information doesn’t make me feel better—or worse.
I need time to absorb it. At the end of the day, it means that the CIA’s version might actually be accurate, as far as cleaned versions go.
They wouldn’t want to implicate Russia directly, so it would fit they wouldn’t tell us the truth.
“James loved you. And your mom. That’s what he would believe is the important thing for you to remember.”
I hear what she’s saying. I file it—not away, just aside. There’ll be time for it later.
“I actually requested this meeting because of your connections with Meridian.” She straightens—I’ve surprised her.
“Go on.”
I lean forward slightly, elbows on my knees. “Meridian Risk Solutions. You’ve done consulting work for them.”
She goes still. For three seconds, she doesn’t move at all. Then she reaches up and removes her sunglasses, folding them carefully before setting them on the bench between us.
Her eyes are pale blue, shot through with fine red lines. Tired eyes. Wary eyes.
“Who told you that?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does if you’re working with people who have access to my financial records.”
“We’re not pulling bank statements, if that’s what you’re worried about. Your name came up in connection to Meridian executives. Phone records. Meeting logs.”
She exhales slowly, her breath visible in the cold air. “I’ve done a few consulting calls. Background assessments on certain operations. Nothing extensive.”
“What kind of operations?”
“The kind where people need to know if something can be verified, disproven, or buried.” She shifts on the bench, pulling her coat tighter. “Meridian isn’t what it looks like on paper, Gabe. They’re not just a PAC advisory firm managing donor relations.”
“What are they?”
“They provide deniability. They move information quietly—between government, private sector, and…” She pauses, choosing her words. “Other interests. They facilitate access. They connect people who shouldn’t be connected on paper.”
“People like you.”
“Former intelligence officers, yes. People who know how systems work. How to access sealed files. How to make problems disappear.” She meets my eyes. “How to shut down federal investigations when the right person makes a phone call.”
My pulse kicks up. “You’re talking about Evie’s case.”
“I’m talking about how these things work.” Her voice stays level, but there’s an edge now. “If Meridian is involved in a DOJ case being killed, it’s because someone with money—real money—wants that case dead. And Meridian specializes in making official channels do exactly what their clients want.”
“Who are the clients?”
“I can’t give you names. Won’t.” She shakes her head.
“But the kind of people who use Meridian’s services?
They’re not cartel foot soldiers. They’re not street-level criminals.
They’re boardrooms. Investment portfolios.
Hedge funds. People who see trafficking as a supply chain solution, not a moral problem. ”
Jesus.
“These people—they’d have access to DOJ files? Witness locations?”
“Not directly. But they’d hire people who do. Meridian keeps former DOJ attorneys on retainer. Former DHS officials. People who still have friends in the system. People who can make a call and get answers that shouldn’t be available.”
She glances around the park again, then back to me.
“If you’re going after Meridian’s clients, you need to watch the people who have access, Gabe. DOJ, DHS, anyone with clearance to sealed operations. That’s where you’ll find your leak. Not in some offshore bank account. In someone’s secure email. In someone’s office after hours.”
I process that. The scope of this is bigger than I thought. Not just corruption—infrastructure. Built to last. Built to protect. Built specifically for people with enough money to never face consequences.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Her expression softens, just slightly. “Because your father was investigating something similar before he was taken. Financial corruption tied to intelligence operations. Shell companies laundering money through defense contracts. He was getting close to something that scared people.”
My throat tightens. “You think that’s why the deal fell through.”
“I think someone decided he was more dangerous alive than dead. And they didn’t want him back in the US.” She stands, brushing invisible dust from her coat. “Your dad wouldn’t have wanted you in the middle of this, Gabe. He’d have told you to walk away. To pick a different path.”
I stand too, with a degree of reluctance. “But you know I won’t.”
“No.” A ghost of a smile crosses her face. “You’re too much like him for that.”
She lifts her sunglasses and slides them back on. “This is the last time we speak. Don’t contact me again. If anyone asks, we talked about your father and nothing else. I offered my condolences. That’s it.”
“Understood.”
She starts to walk away, then pauses, glancing back over her shoulder.
“One more thing. The people Meridian protects? They don’t like exposure. They don’t like prosecutors who won’t stay bought. If your prosecutor is still pushing—if she’s still digging—they’ll escalate. They’ll make her the problem instead of the case.”
“Too late,” I say quietly. “They’ve already targeted her.”
Dahlia’s mouth tightens. “Then you’d better find the leak before they decide she’s not worth the trouble of scaring. Because the next step after intimidation is elimination.”
She walks away without another word.
I sit back down on the bench, watching her disappear down the path toward the parking lot. The wind picks up, cutting through my jacket. The sky has darkened—rain coming sooner than forecast.
I sit there for another five minutes, letting it all settle.
Dad was investigating financial corruption. He died for it—or because of it. And now Evie’s chasing the same kind of people. People who see human lives as line items. Who hire firms like Meridian to make problems vanish.
The scope is staggering. It’s not just a rogue DOJ official or a dirty senator. It’s a system. A network designed specifically to insulate wealth from consequence.
And Evie walked into the middle of it.
My phone buzzes. A text from Jake: All clear here. She’s upstairs working.
I stand, heading back toward my car. The rain starts as I reach it—light at first, then heavier. I sit behind the wheel for a moment before starting the engine, staring at the icy rain streaking down the windshield.
I’m going to tell Evie everything Dahlia said. Not tomorrow. Not when it’s “safe.” Tonight. As soon as I walk through her door.
Because if my father taught me anything, it’s that secrets get people killed.
And I’m not losing her the way my mother lost him.
I put the car in drive and head back toward Capitol Hill.