Chapter 4 - The Shadow Protocol
Grant left the estate without touching his breakfast.
He drove straight back to the industrial district warehouse, bypassing the main office and heading down into the sub-basement archive rooms where Trent operated his digital panopticon.
The room was cool, humming with the low vibration of a dozen server racks blinking with green and blue LED lights. Trent sat in front of three massive monitors, furiously typing away, a half-empty can of energy drink beside his keyboard.
"Boss," Trent said without turning around. "I pulled the financial trail from the day Jolene supposedly died. Your uncle didn't just write a fake certificate. He set up an offshore trust in the Cayman Islands under a dummy corporation."
Grant stopped behind Trent's chair. "Show me."
With a few keystrokes, Trent brought up a bank routing number and a residential property deed. "Five months ago, right after the supposed hospital death, a modest three-bedroom cottage in a quiet, secluded neighborhood on the northern edge of Tybee Island was purchased outright using cash wired from Desmond's private holdings. The deed is registered under an alias: Sarah Miller."
Grant stared at the address on the screen. Tybee Island. Just thirty minutes east of Savannah, surrounded by salt marshes and quiet beaches—a place where people went to hide in plain sight.
"Is she still there?" Grant asked.
"According to local utility records and recent grocery deliveries tracked through local credit card logs under that alias, yes," Trent confirmed, spinning around in his chair to face Grant. "Boss... what's your play? If Mr. Desmond finds out we're tracking the Tybee property, he'll know you're looking for her."
"Desmond thinks I'm a good little soldier who will fall in line for the sake of the Langford merger," Grant said coldly. "He thinks my loyalty to the family outweighs everything else."
"And does it?" Trent asked cautiously.
Grant looked down at the silver ring on his finger—the ring Jolene had slipped onto his hand the night they exchanged quiet vows in a secluded chapel by the river.
"Desmond forgot one fundamental rule of the syndicate," Grant murmured. "You don't steal a man's wife, and you sure as hell don't steal his child."
May you like
Grant pulled out his phone. He didn't call Desmond. He dialed a number he hadn't used in two years—Marcus Vance, his most trusted fixer outside the direct Holloway chain of command.
"Marcus," Grant said when the line picked up. "I need a secure transport and a medical team stationed near Tybee Island within the hour. No chatter. No logs."
