Chapter 13 - Shadows Over Atlanta
Two days after Russell’s call, I left the Hickman County farmhouse under the watchful eye of a trusted private security team and boarded a private turboprop out of Nashville. My destination wasn’t a corporate boardroom or a luxury hotel; it was a nondescript industrial park on the northern outskirts of Atlanta, Georgia—the registered headquarters of Apex Capital Partners, the syndicate Walter’s ledger had exposed.
The flight was short, the cabin silent save for the low hum of the engines. I stared out the window at the endless expanse of pine forests rolling across the Georgia-Tennessee border, my mind replaying the image of Megan walking along that dusty highway with two babies strapped to her chest. They had tried to break her. They had tried to erase her existence, starving her of resources while keeping our sick daughter hidden away in a sterile hospital room.
When the plane touched down on a private airstrip near DeKalb-Peachtree Airport, a sleek black SUV was waiting at the tarmac. My lead security operative, a former federal marshal named Vance, opened the door for me as I stepped out into the humid southern air.
“We have eyes on the Apex building,” Vance said, handing me a secure tablet displaying satellite feeds and floor plans. “Arthur Pendelton, the senior managing partner, is currently inside his penthouse office on the twelfth floor. His legal team is scrambling because the feds just subpoenaed their primary banking records in connection with the Sullivan-Briggs freeze.”
“Good,” I said, sliding into the leather seat. “Let’s go pay Mr. Pendelton a visit.”
The drive through Atlanta traffic was tense. As the SUV pulled up to the mirrored glass tower of Apex Capital, the afternoon sun cast blinding reflections across the concrete plaza. I walked through the sliding glass doors with the measured, unhurried stride of a man who had nothing left to lose and everything to protect.
The receptionist at the front desk barely had time to look up before Vance stepped in, flashing a federal-grade credential that made her swallow hard and keep her mouth shut. We bypassed the elevator security queues using pre-arranged access codes and rode the private lift straight to the top floor.
The heavy mahogany doors of the executive suite swung open to reveal a sprawling office furnished with expensive modern art and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Atlanta skyline. Arthur Pendelton—a silver-haired man in a bespoke Italian suit—was standing by the glass with a telephone pressed to his ear, his face flushed with panic.
When he saw me walk into his office, the phone slipped from his hand, clattering against the polished hardwood floor.
“Garrett Sullivan,” Pendelton choked out, taking an involuntary step back toward his desk. “You… you aren't supposed to be here. Your assets were supposed to be frozen by the Tennessee receivership!”
I walked across the room in silence, my boots clicking rhythmically against the floor, until I was standing right across from his expansive mahogany desk. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to.
“You tried to steal my company, Pendelton,” I said quietly, leaning forward with my hands resting on the edge of the wood. “You tried to launder dirty money through my freight terminals, and you used a ruthless, conniving sociopath named Tiffany to frame my wife and hide my newborn children.”
Pendelton forced a shaky, defensive smile, trying to summon whatever corporate authority he had left. “You have no proof linking Apex to your domestic disputes. That was entirely between you and your ex-fiancée. We are a legitimate investment firm—”
Before he could finish his sentence, I pulled the encrypted tablet from my coat pocket and slammed it onto the desk. The screen lit up, displaying scanned copies of Walter Briggs’s handwritten ledger, complete with wire transfer receipts, encrypted email threads between Pendelton and Tiffany, and bank account routing numbers connecting Apex Capital directly to the shell corporations that funded Hazel’s isolation clinic in Memphis.
May you like
“That’s not proof,” I whispered, my voice dropping into a register that made the blood drain entirely from Pendelton’s face. “That’s a death warrant for your entire corporate existence.”
***
