Chapter 5 - The Financial Flank
At 0900 the following morning, the Prescott Group’s corporate headquarters in downtown Charlotte became the target of a coordinated federal operation.
While the local police were still trying to figure out how to handle Ethan’s misdemeanor processing, six vehicles from the Internal Revenue Service’s Criminal Investigation Division and the Department of Homeland Security pulled up to the glittering glass tower.
I stood across the street in a civilian trench coat, watching through dark sunglasses as federal agents carried out boxes of files and computer hard drives.
My phone buzzed with an incoming audio file from Vance. I put in my earpiece.
"Colonel, we just intercepted a call between Margaret and Brandon Prescott," Vance’s voice reported. "I’m playing it for you now."
The audio crackled, then Margaret’s voice filled my ear, completely stripped of its usual aristocratic calm. She sounded breathless, her tone sharp with panic.
"Brandon! The feds are at the office. They have a warrant for the maritime logistics servers. How did they get a warrant? The Governor assured me the state audit was closed!"
"Mom, this isn't the state," Brandon’s voice answered, sounding equally stressed. "It’s federal. It’s coming from the Department of Homeland Security. It’s that damn Colonel. She didn't go to the local courts; she went through maritime security protocols. They’re freezing the assets at the Port of Wilmington."
"Destroy the offshore ledger duplicates in the safe house, Brandon! Now! If they link the Panamanian transfers to Ethan’s real estate losses, we’re completely finished!"
The call cut off.
I checked my watch. "Marcus, did you trace Brandon’s location during that call?"
"Yes, Colonel. He’s moving toward a private residential property owned by a Prescott holding company in Lake Norman. It’s an isolated lake house. That must be where they keep the hard copies of their secondary accounting."
"Send the coordinates to my vehicle," I ordered. "And alert Sarah Jenkins’ CID team. We need to intercept him before he can destroy evidence."
"Colonel, you can't engage directly," Vance warned. "You’re out of uniform, but you’re still an active-duty officer. If you’re involved in a civilian raid without local law enforcement—"
"I’m not conducting a raid, Marcus," I said, walking toward my SUV. "I’m an independent citizen protecting my daughter’s legal interests. And I’m a mother who is tired of listening to these people talk."
The drive to Lake Norman took forty-five minutes. The weather was bright and clear, the sun glittering off the massive, expensive lakefront properties. The Prescott lake house was a sprawling modern structure of glass and cedar, hidden behind a thick perimeter of pine trees and a security gate.
When I arrived, the security gate was already hanging open, the lock smashed. Brandon’s luxury sports car was parked crookedly in the driveway, the driver’s side door still open.
I stepped out of my vehicle, my boots gravel-crunching as I walked toward the house. The front door was ajar. Inside, the sound of a paper shredder hummed loudly from an office down the main hallway.
I walked inside, my footsteps silent.
Brandon Prescott stood over a heavy-duty industrial shredder, frantically feeding stacks of green-rimmed ledger paper into the blades. A large steel safe in the wall stood open, empty folders scattered across the mahogany desk.
"You're moving too slow, Brandon," I said from the doorway.
Brandon spun around, his face slick with sweat, his expensive silk tie thrown over his shoulder. When he saw me, his eyes widened with a mixture of rage and terror. He looked down at a heavy iron fireplace poker resting against the wall.
"You..." he spat, his voice shaking. "You crazy military bitch. You think you can just walk into my house? This is private property! I'll have you shot for trespassing!"
"With what?" I asked, taking a slow, measured step into the room. My hands were relaxed at my sides, my posture completely balanced. "The guards you paid off with corporate funds that are currently being frozen by the federal government? Your family is running out of currency, Brandon. Both monetary and political."
He reached for the fireplace poker, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the iron. "You destroyed our business! You ruined thirty years of my mother's work because your stuck-up daughter couldn't handle a little rough treatment from her husband!"
"My daughter is a United States citizen, and she is my blood," I said, my voice dropping into that terrifying, quiet register. "Your brother put his hands on her. Your mother locked her away. And you laughed. You thought because you wore a five-thousand-dollar suit, you were a soldier. You aren't a soldier, Brandon. You’re a parasite that grew fat on corporate fraud."
He lunged forward, swinging the iron poker with an awkward, untrained fury.
In the military, hand-to-hand combat training isn't about style; it's about economy of motion. I stepped inside his arc, completely avoiding the clumsy swing. My left hand shot out, striking his throat with a precise, measured palm-strike that stole his breath instantly. As he gasped and dropped the iron, I seized his right wrist, twisted it behind his back into a standard compliance lock, and forced his face flat onto the mahogany desk, right next to the smoking paper shredder.
"Let go of me!" he choked out, his face turning red against the polished wood.
"The federal marshals are exactly three minutes behind me, Brandon," I said quietly into his ear, maintaining just enough pressure on his wrist to keep him immobile. "You can either spend the next ten years in a federal penitentiary for corporate racketeering and destroying evidence, or you can tell me exactly which state judges your mother has in her pocket so I can clean out the rest of this valley."
Before he could answer, the sound of spinning tires erupted in the driveway, followed by the authoritative shouts of federal agents.
"Federal agents! Hands where we can see them!"
I released Brandon, stepping back with my hands held open as Sarah Jenkins and four DHS investigators burst into the office with weapons drawn.
Brandon collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air, clutching his throat as an agent quickly pulled his arms behind his back and clicked a pair of heavy steel handcuffs onto his wrists.
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Sarah Jenkins looked at the shredder, then at me, a slow nod of respect passing between us. "Nice timing, Colonel. We secured the primary servers at the main office. This stuff here?" She kicked an un-shredded folder on the floor. "This is just the icing on the cake."
"Take him away," I said, looking down at Brandon. "He's finished."
