Chapter 6 - The Fall of Pendelton
By eleven o'clock that night, the mansion was quiet. Federal agents had finished cataloging the main floor and had set up a permanent security post at the front gate. Margaret had been escorted off the property carrying a single battered suitcase, forced to call a rideshare service using cash she had borrowed from her caterer.
I sat in the dark interior of the suburban parked outside a lavish brick townhouse in downtown Charleston’s historic district—the private law office of Arthur Pendelton.
Beside me, Agent Mercer tapped her tablet screen. "Pendelton just entered his office ten minutes ago, Director. Local traffic cameras show he’s frantically shredding documents and clearing out his wall safe."
"He knows Sterling was arrested," I noted. "He’s preparing to flee."
"Should we move in with local law enforcement?" Mercer asked.
"No," I said, checking my sidearm and stepping out of the vehicle. "This one is personal. Stay on the perimeter. Keep the federal arrest warrant ready."
I walked up the stone steps of the townhouse. The front door was locked, but a high-level SAFCD electronic passkey unlocked the smart-latch with a soft beep. I stepped inside, closing the door silently behind me.
The air inside smelled of expensive leather, cigar smoke, and panic.
I walked down the carpeted hallway toward the lit office at the end. Through the cracked wooden door, I could see Arthur Pendelton—a rotund man in his late fifties, wearing a rumpled suit—frantically stuffing stacks of hundred-dollar bills, offshore bearer bonds, and fake passports into a leather duffel bag. A heavy-duty document shredder was whirring loudly beside his desk, eating through piles of real estate deeds.
"Packing light, Arthur?" I asked, pushing the door open.
Pendelton gasped, spinning around so fast he knocked a brass desk lamp to the floor. His face went gray when he saw me standing in the doorway—framed in the low light, wearing my black tactical jacket, arms folded, eyes cold as ice.
"Ethan!" Pendelton stammered, sweating profusely through his collar. "I... I didn't expect to see you here! I heard you were back from your deployment!"
"I came to ask about a signature, Arthur," I said, walking slowly into the room. I picked up a piece of shredded paper from the floor, examining it casually. "Specifically, the signature on the Power of Attorney document that gave Ryan control of my company."
Pendelton backed away against his mahogany bookshelf, clutching his duffel bag like a shield. "Listen to me, Ethan! It wasn't my idea! Ryan and your mother... they came to me! They said you were missing in action! They said the company was going under and needed immediate restructuring! I was just acting as their legal counsel!"
"Legal counsel doesn't use automated signature plotters to forge a officer’s signature while he’s deployed in a combat zone," I said flatly, stopping three feet from him. "Legal counsel doesn't take twenty percent kickbacks routed through Grand Cayman accounts."
Pendelton’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. "How... how do you know about the Cayman accounts?"
"Because I'm not a logistics captain, Arthur," I said quietly, reaching into my jacket and pulling out my official SAFCD credentials, flicking the leather case open to reveal the gold federal shield and high-level director authorization. "I am the Deputy Director of Financial Crime for the Department of Defense. And for the last six months, you haven't been stealing from a helpless soldier. You’ve been committing high treason against a federal executive."
Pendelton’s knees literally gave out. He slid down the front of his bookshelf, collapsing onto the Persian rug, the duffel bag falling open, spilling bundles of cash across the floor.
"Oh God..." Pendelton whimpered, pressing his hands together in a desperate prayer. "Ethan, please! I have a family! I have a reputation! I’ll cooperate! I’ll tell the federal prosecutor everything! I’ll testify against Ryan! I’ll testify against Margaret!"
"You will testify," I agreed coldly, looking down at him with utter disgust. "You will detail every illegal contract, every forged deed, and every penny you helped them steal. But you won't be doing it to save your reputation, Arthur. You'll be doing it to save yourself from spending the rest of your natural life in a maximum-security federal penitentiary."
I pulled out my radio. "Mercer. Send in the team."
Within seconds, four federal agents swept into the office, lifting Pendelton off the floor and snapping cuffs onto his wrists.
As they dragged the weeping attorney out of his office, Mercer walked up beside me, holding a secure tablet. "Director, we just intercepted an urgent wire transfer request from Margaret Bennett’s personal phone. She’s trying to drain a hidden emergency vault account registered under her maiden name."
I looked at the tablet screen. The account contained three million dollars—the final reserve of money she had kept hidden from everyone, including Ryan.
"Trace the destination," I ordered.
"It's routed to a private charter flight operator at Charleston International Airport," Mercer reported. "She booked a one-way private jet to Zurich leaving at 2:00 AM."
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I looked at my rose-gold watch. It was 11:45 PM.
"She thinks she’s escaping," I said, a dark smile playing on my lips. "Let her get to the airport. Let her sit on that plane. I want her to feel the engines start before we shut her world down for good."
