Frankie woke to the pale gray light of a D.C. dawn filtering through the hotel curtains. His body was a map of aches—shoulder, ribs, the deep bruise where the elevator had thrown him against the floor—but his mind was clear. For the first time in a week, he knew exactly what he needed to do.
The digital recorder was still on the nightstand where he'd left it. He picked it up, pressed play, and heard Harwood's voice again, tinny but unmistakable: "I don't care what Morrison says. I'm not going down for this." The words were a lifeline, a weapon, a final card that could not be countered.
Reyes was already awake, sitting at the small desk with her laptop open, her face illuminated by the screen's glow. "Vargas uploaded the recording at 4 AM. It went viral by 5. Every major news outlet is running it. Harwood's lawyers have already issued a statement—they're calling it 'selectively edited and taken out of context.' But the forensic audio analysts are already debunking that. It's over, Frankie. Morrison's lost."
Frankie sat up slowly, his joints protesting. "What about Leo?"
Reyes's expression shifted—a flicker of something that might have been guilt. "He's in custody. Capitol Police picked him up two blocks from the Corcoran Club. He'd been beaten pretty badly, but he's alive. They're holding him on charges of trespassing and assault, but Armitage is already working on a deal to have them dropped in exchange for his cooperation."
Frankie felt a surge of relief so intense it almost made him dizzy. Leo was alive. His partner, his betrayer, his friend—still breathing, still fighting. "Can I see him?"
"Not yet. He's in a holding cell at the Capitol Police station. Armitage says he'll be released by noon, but he's under protective custody until the hearing concludes. Morrison's people are still out there, and they're desperate."
Frankie nodded, his mind already racing ahead. The hearing was scheduled to resume at 10 AM. The committee would vote on whether to release the full transcripts and the supporting evidence. With Harwood's confession now public, Morrison's claim of "national security implications" would be laughed out of the room.
But Frankie knew better than to underestimate Morrison. A cornered man was the most dangerous kind.
He showered, dressed, and ate a quick breakfast of stale toast and coffee. Reyes briefed him on the morning's developments: Harwood's stock had plummeted overnight; Marauder Group was facing a class-action lawsuit from the families of the affected reservists; and Morrison had gone dark—no statements, no appearances, no public engagements.
"He's planning something," Reyes said. "Morrison doesn't retreat. He reloads."
Frankie agreed. He had seen the deputy director's cold, calculating eyes. That was not a man who accepted defeat. That was a man who was waiting for the right moment to strike back.
They arrived at the Capitol building at 9:30 AM, flanked by Capitol Police officers. The security was heavier than before—metal detectors, bomb-sniffing dogs, plainclothes agents at every entrance. Frankie felt like a prizefighter walking into the ring for the final round.
The hearing room was packed. The gallery was overflowing with journalists, their cameras trained on the dais. The committee members were already seated, their faces somber. Senator Armitage was at the head of the table, his expression unreadable.
Frankie took the witness stand, the recorder's hard drive in his pocket, its contents already uploaded to the committee's secure server. He was asked to summarize the recording's contents, to confirm its authenticity, and to explain how he had obtained it.
He did so, calmly and precisely, omitting only Leo's involvement to protect his friend. He described the meeting at the Corcoran Club, the ventilation shaft, the confession. He named names, provided dates, and pointed to the mountains of evidence that had already been submitted.
When he finished, the room was silent. Then, one by one, the committee members began to speak. They praised his courage, condemned the fraud, and promised to refer the matter to the Department of Justice for a full criminal investigation.
The vote was unanimous. The transcripts would be released. The testimony would be made public. And Morrison and Harwood would be subpoenaed to testify under oath.
Frankie stepped down from the stand, his legs trembling. Reyes was waiting for him at the side of the room, her face breaking into a rare smile. "You did it," she said. "You actually did it."
Frankie nodded, but he felt hollowed out. The fight was over—or so it seemed. But he couldn't shake the feeling that Morrison had one more card to play.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number—the same number that had warned him about the Corcoran Club.
"Morrison's not finished. He's at the Department of Transportation building, destroying the last remaining copies of the original ledger. The committee's copy is safe, but he's trying to erase the chain of custody. He'll claim the documents you submitted are forgeries. You have one hour to stop him."
Frankie showed the text to Reyes. "He's destroying the evidence."
Reyes read it, her face hardening. "Or it's another trap. He wants to lure us to the DOT building."
"I don't care if it's a trap. I'm not letting him destroy the evidence. It's the only thing that ties the fraud to Harwood's confession." Frankie was already moving toward the exit. "I need a car."
Reyes grabbed his arm. "If you're going, you're not going alone. I'm coming with you."
They raced out of the Capitol building, past the security gates, and into the D.C. streets. Reyes had commandeered a Capitol Police cruiser, its lights flashing, its siren wailing. They drove through the traffic like a blade, the buildings blurring past.
The Department of Transportation building loomed ahead, a brutalist monument of concrete and glass. Frankie burst through the main entrance, his badge—still active, surprisingly—raised high. He ignored the shouts of the security guards and headed for the elevators.
The basement archive was the same as he remembered—dark, dusty, lined with rolling shelves. He ran to the row where the ledger had been stored, his heart pounding. But the shelf was empty. A pile of ash and charred paper lay in a metal bin nearby.
Morrison was standing beside the bin, his hands blackened with soot, a faint smile on his face. "You're too late, Marchetti. The original is gone. The chain of custody is broken. Your committee can argue all they want, but without the physical document, they have nothing but testimony and hearsay."
Frankie felt a wave of despair, but then he saw the recorder in his hand—still running, still capturing Morrison's confession. "I have enough," he said. "I have your voice, on record, admitting to the fraud."
Morrison's smile faltered. He lunged for the recorder, but Reyes was faster. She stepped between them, her gun drawn, her voice cold. "Back up, Morrison. This is over."
Morrison stopped, his hands raised. "You're making a mistake. I can still make this go away. I can protect you, protect your family—"
Frankie shook his head. "I don't want your protection. I want justice."
The security guards burst into the room, followed by Capitol Police officers who had been alerted by the commotion. Morrison was handcuffed and led away, his face a mask of cold fury.
Frankie stood in the archive, watching the ashes of the ledger smolder in the bin. He had lost the original, but he had won the war. The recording of Morrison's admission was enough. It would never hold up in court as physical evidence, but it was more than enough to destroy his credibility and ensure his conviction.
He walked out of the building into the bright morning light. Reyes was beside him, her face pale but triumphant. "It's done," she said. "It's finally done."
Frankie nodded, but he felt a strange emptiness. The chase was over, but the cost was high. Leo was in custody, his family in danger. Stroud's reputation had been stained, even if the smear had been neutralized. And he had not spoken to his wife or daughter in a week.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Carol's number. It rang once, twice, three times. Then her voice, trembling: "Frankie? Is it really you?"
"It's me," he said, his voice breaking. "I'm coming home. I'm coming home."
He hung up and looked at the sky. The clouds were parting, and the sun was breaking through. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to hope.
But as he got into the cruiser, his phone buzzed again. A text from the unknown number:
"Morrison's down, but Harwood's still out there. He's got a contingency plan—a hidden account with enough money to buy his way out of any country. And he's taking your family with him as leverage. He's already chartered a private jet to a Caribbean island. Your wife and daughter are on board. You have less than two hours to stop him."
Frankie stared at the screen, his blood freezing. He had won the battle, but the war was not over.
He had to save Anna. He had to save Carol.
And he had to kill Harwood before Harwood destroyed everything he loved.
He looked at Reyes. "Get me to the airport," he said. "Now."
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