Chapter 6 - The Iron HammerZ
By two o’clock that afternoon, the financial district of Lower Manhattan resembled a war zone.
Federal black SUVs and unmarked tactical vans barricaded the perimeter surrounding the glass monolith of Sterling Global Defense. Armed agents wearing tactical vests with FBI and DIA emblazoned in yellow across their backs swarmed the lobby, securing every terminal, elevator, and executive suite.
I sat in the back of an armored suburban parked across the street, flanked by Marcus Kane and Director Hayes. On the bank of monitors in front of us, live feeds from the federal breach played out in real time.
"Sterling’s legal team is screaming bloody murder," Marcus noted, reviewing the warrants on his tablet. "They’re claiming executive privilege and national security immunity."
"Immunity doesn't cover domestic contract hits on DIA personnel," Director Hayes growled, adjusting his military tie. Hayes was a four-star veteran who had overseen my operational task force in the Middle East. He looked at me with deep respect. "You should have come to us the moment Eleanor Whitmore started laundering money, Marissa. You didn't have to carry this alone."
"The Whitmores were personal, Hayes," I replied quietly. "I wanted to handle them within the civilian legal framework. But once Sterling decided to leverage Anthony’s desperation to cover his own treason, it became a matter of national security."
On the primary monitor, the double doors of the executive suite on the fiftieth floor were breached. Victor Sterling was shown standing behind his massive mahogany desk, his hands raised, surrounded by six federal tactical agents with assault rifles drawn. The smug, untouchable arrogance that had defined his career was entirely obliterated, replaced by the hollow, vacant shock of a man whose empire had crumbled in an instant.
"We have Sterling in custody," the radio crackled. "Securing the primary mainframe now."
"Bring him down," Hayes ordered into his comms. "And make sure the press gets every single angle."
I turned to Marcus. "Where is Anthony?"
Marcus tapped his screen, bringing up a live tracking grid. "After Chloe called him in a panic, he cleared out his personal safe at his apartment and booked a charter flight out of Teterboro to the Bahamas under a fake passport. He’s currently stuck in traffic on the George Washington Bridge."
"Intercept him," I said. "I don't want him leaving the state."
"State troopers are already moving into position," Marcus confirmed. "He won't make it past the toll plaza."
Twenty minutes later, my phone pinged with a notification from the New York State Police feed. A short video clip showed Anthony’s luxury sedan boxed in by four police cruisers on the upper level of the bridge. Anthony was dragged out of the driver’s seat, thrown onto the hood of his car, and cuffed behind his back in front of hundreds of stalled commuters recording the spectacle on their smartphones.
The golden boy of Wall Street, the prince of Park Avenue, was reduced to a viral clip on social media, screaming into the wind as state troopers read him his Miranda rights.
"That leaves Eleanor," Hayes said, closing his folder. "She’s holed up in the family estate in the Hamptons. Refusing to come to the door. Her personal attorneys are trying to broker a surrender, but she’s threatening to burn the property down before she lets the feds take her art collection."
I stood up and smoothed down my dark trench coat. "I’ll handle Eleanor personally."
"Marissa," Marcus warned, looking up at me. "Protocol."
"I’m bringing an escort, Marcus," I assured him. "But Eleanor started this war in my living room. I’m going to finish it in hers."
Two hours later, a convoy of three black sedans pulled up the long, winding driveway of the Whitmore estate in Southampton. The sprawling, multi-million-dollar compound sat overlooking the gray, churning Atlantic Ocean. The wrought-iron gates had already been forced open by federal marshals, who were standing perimeter guard on the manicured lawns.
I stepped out of the vehicle and walked up the stone steps of the grand entrance. The front doors were unlocked.
Inside, the grand foyer was a disaster. Crystal vases were smashed on the antique rugs, family portraits were slashed or torn from the walls, and expensive luggage sat half-packed near the sweeping marble staircase.
Eleanor was sitting on the bottom step, clutching an empty bottle of gin, her hair wild and unkempt, her makeup running in dark streaks down her hollow, haggard face. She was still wearing the same red gown from the Plaza gala the night before, now stained and crumpled.
When she heard my footsteps, she lifted her bloodshot eyes.
"You," she rasped, her voice completely broken. "You destroyed everything. My home. My son. My family name."
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I stopped five paces from her, looking down at the ruined matriarch who had spent five years treating me like an inferior servant.
"You destroyed yourself, Eleanor," I said calmly. "I just stopped paying for your lies."
