Chapter 11 - The Senator’s Panic
In the subterranean parking garage beneath a private office building in downtown Washington, D.C., Senator Richard Vance shoved his phone back into his coat pocket, his hands shaking with a mixture of rage and sheer terror.
The call to Providence had gone unanswered. Don Marini’s phones were dead, his penthouse was surrounded by federal agents, and his inner circle had scattered like roaches when the lights flickered on. Senator Vance was entirely on his own.
“Sir, we need to move,” his strategist whispered urgently, holding the door of a waiting town car open. “The Attorney General’s office just announced a press conference for tomorrow morning regarding the Tri-State corruption probe. Your name is at the top of the investigative ledger.”
Vance slid into the leather backseat, slamming the door shut behind him. “Find out who’s leading the prosecutorial task force. Offer them whatever they want—campaign contributions, judicial appointments, board seats. I want those ledgers sealed before morning.”
The strategist climbed into the passenger seat, tapping frantically on his laptop screen as the car pulled out into the evening traffic. “Sir... I already checked. The special prosecutor heading the financial oversight division isn't answering back-channel offers.”
“Who is it?” Vance demanded, leaning forward.
“A former federal magistrate named Arthur Sterling,” the strategist replied, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And according to the classified personnel files... he was appointed directly by a private trust managed through a holding company in Connecticut.”
Vance’s heart skipped a beat. A holding company in Connecticut. Sterling Manor.
Evan Whitaker hadn't just checkmated him; he had bought the board.
“Turn the car around,” Vance snapped, panic finally breaking through his polished political veneer. “We’re going to New York. I need to speak to Whitaker personally.”
“Sir, you can’t just walk up to Evan Whitaker—”
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“Do it!” Vance roared, striking the divider partition. “If I don't negotiate a settlement tonight, I won't just lose my seat—I’ll spend the rest of my life in a federal supermax facility!”
The town car swerved into the northbound lane, racing toward the dark highway that led straight to Connecticut, unaware that every mile they drove was being tracked by Marcus’s encrypted satellite feeds before they even crossed the state line.
