Chapter 9 - MALCOLM SHAW’S LAST GAMEMalcolm chose an abandoned courthouse in rural Virginia.
That made it worse.
We returned to a secure federal office in Washington.
She closed the door.
“Malcolm financed my first campaign.”
I stared at her.
“How much?”
“Indirectly? About four million dollars.”
“You knew?”
“Not then.”
“When did you learn?”
“Six years later.”
“And you stayed in office.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I spent the next fourteen years dismantling every organization connected to the money.”
“You could have resigned.”
“And replaced myself with someone the Circle actually controlled?”
“You sound like Malcolm.”
That hurt.
Good.
Rebecca turned away.
“He came to me after Section Nine collapsed. He said if I left public service, everything we had done would disappear.”
“So he bought your political career.”
“He funded the beginning of it.”
“With dirty money.”
“Yes.”
I had known Rebecca for half my life.
I trusted her judgment.
Not always her methods.
Now Sarah’s warning returned.
Do not trust anyone who remembers Prague.
“What happened in Prague?” I asked.
Rebecca closed her eyes.
“We identified a banker moving Circle money through Eastern Europe.”
“I remember.”
“You don’t remember everything.”
“Apparently nobody told me anything important.”
“Malcolm ordered me to offer the banker immunity.”
“That’s standard.”
“He also ordered me to protect the banker’s American partner.”
“Who?”
Rebecca looked at me.
“My father.”
I didn’t speak.
“Charles Sloan had been laundering Circle money through his investment firm for twelve years.”
“And Malcolm knew.”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“Not until Prague.”
“What did you do?”
“I signed the immunity agreement.”
I almost laughed.
“Sarah knew?”
“She found out later.”
“So her warning was about you.”
“Probably.”
I walked toward the window.
“Everybody lied.”
Rebecca came closer.
“Daniel, there is a difference between hiding shame and hiding danger.”
“Not to the person being lied to.”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“There isn’t.”
Before I could answer, an analyst entered.
“We found Cole Harrington.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Your daughter’s college.”
I turned.
“What?”
“He walked into the campus television studio ten minutes ago.”
“Why?”
The analyst looked astonished.
“He says he wants to confess publicly.”
Cole had chosen the one place his father couldn’t quietly reach him.
The student newsroom was livestreaming.
By the time we arrived, forty thousand people were watching online.
Cole sat at a desk beneath fluorescent lights.
His face was bruised.
He looked directly into the camera.
“My name is Cole Harrington.”
Students stood around him.
Some were crying.
“My father is Thomas Harrington, CEO of Harrington Development.”
The livestream count climbed.
“I participated in the assault of Emma Mercer.”
Someone behind the camera gasped.
Cole continued.
“I held her while Preston Vale struck her repeatedly. Tyler Wynn kicked her after she fell.”
My throat tightened.
Rebecca stood beside me.
Neither of us moved.
Cole described the fundraiser.
Mateo’s video.
The laundering operation.
Then he said something we didn’t know.
“Emma Mercer wasn’t attacked because she insulted Preston.”
He looked toward another camera.
“She was attacked because Preston recognized her name.”
My stomach dropped.
“Before the fundraiser, our fathers showed us photographs of Daniel Mercer and Emma Mercer. They told us if we ever encountered either one, we had to report it immediately.”
Rebecca whispered, “Jesus.”
Cole continued.
“Preston saw Emma’s student ID after she picked up Mateo’s phone. He realized who she was.”
So Emma’s attack had not been random.
Not completely.
Preston knew.
Maybe he intended to frighten her.
Maybe he intended to send me a message.
Either way, the past had found us.
Cole looked down.
“I laughed outside the police station because my father told me that if I looked afraid, people would smell weakness.”
He began crying.
“I was afraid.”
He faced the camera.
“I’m still afraid.”
Then the lights went out.
I moved immediately.
Gunshots erupted inside the building.
Students screamed.
Rebecca’s security dragged her behind cover.
I ran toward the studio.
One shooter.
Maybe two.
I heard suppressed fire.
Someone was trying to kill Cole on camera.
I entered through a side corridor.
A man in maintenance clothing was moving toward the broadcast room.
Weapon raised.
I tackled him.
He fired into the ceiling.
We hit the floor.
He was younger than me.
Stronger.
But fear makes people fast.
Experience makes them efficient.
I trapped his elbow, forced the weapon free, and drove his head against the carpet until he stopped fighting.
The second shooter ran.
Campus police caught him outside.
Cole survived.
The livestream never stopped.
Nearly two million people watched armed men attempt to murder a twenty-one-year-old witness minutes after he accused billionaire families of corruption.
That was the moment the story became too big to bury.
By midnight, national networks were running Emma’s hospital photograph beside Cole’s confession.
Public outrage exploded.
The Department of Justice announced a special investigation.
Richard Vale’s international accounts were frozen.
Thomas Harrington resigned.
Wynn Holdings lost billions in market value before trading was halted.
For the first time, the Circle was bleeding publicly.
Emma watched coverage from the lighthouse safe house.
When I called, she said one thing.
“Dad, Mateo.”
I knew.
Everyone was talking about wealthy criminals.
Nobody was talking about the missing dishwasher who risked his life to record them.
We found Mateo forty-eight hours later.
Alive.
Barely.
He was locked inside a storage building owned by Vale Construction.
His injuries were severe.
But he could talk.
When I entered his hospital room, he grabbed my wrist.
“Emma?”
“She’s safe.”
He began crying.
“She tried to help me.”
“I know.”
“They told me they would kill my sister.”
“They won’t.”
Mateo shook his head violently.
“You don’t understand.”
“What?”
“They already have someone else.”
“Who?”
He swallowed.
“The senator’s daughter.”
I looked toward Rebecca.
All color disappeared from her face.
Rebecca had one child.
A thirty-year-old daughter named Claire.
An elementary school teacher.
She lived in Georgetown.
Rebecca grabbed her phone.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
Then Rebecca received a photograph.
Claire tied to a chair.
Behind her stood Malcolm Shaw.
A message appeared beneath it.
BRING ME SARAH’S ARCHIVE.
Then another.
OR THIS ENDS THE WAY ATLANTA DID.
Rebecca looked at me.
For twenty years, Malcolm Shaw had manipulated governments, criminals, investigators, and friends.
Now he had made his final mistake.
May you like
He had threatened our children.
And this time, Rebecca Sloan and the Ghost were on the same side.
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