14. Truth and Bullets

The Montana ranch was a sprawling spread of pine and prairie, tucked into a valley that seemed to have been forgotten by the rest of the world. The main house was a log cabin with a wraparound porch, a tin roof, and a wood stove that threw off enough heat to make the winter drafts bearable. Lita's contact—a weathered rancher named Clay who asked no questions and took cash—had handed over the keys and disappeared into the hills.

They'd been there for three days. Royce spent most of his time on the porch, watching the snow fall on the distant peaks, his mind churning through the fragments of information they'd gathered. Altman had recovered enough to talk, but her revelations were more unsettling than illuminating.

The board, she explained, was not a formal organization. It was a loose collective of powerful individuals—former intelligence officers, corporate executives, senior bureaucrats—who had discovered they could enrich themselves by manipulating environmental regulations and settlement funds. They didn't meet in person. They communicated through a network of encrypted dead drops, each member knowing only a handful of others. Altman had been their primary operational asset, the person who translated their vague directives into concrete action.

"Kestrel was my alias," she said, sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee warming her hands. "I was the one who hired Morrow, who funded Cleaver, who kept the money flowing. But I never knew who issued the orders. I received them through a series of cutouts—people who didn't know my identity, and who I didn't know in return. The board was a ghost."

Mir had been sifting through Altman's personal files—the ones she'd managed to salvage from Briarwood before the attack. "I've found a pattern," she said, pointing to her laptop. "The dead drops are distributed across six cities: D.C., New York, Chicago, Dallas, San Francisco, and Seattle. Each drop is used once, then abandoned. But the timestamps show a rhythm—they're not random. They follow a schedule. Whoever's sending these messages is methodical, disciplined."

Royce studied the timestamps. "Military background?"

"Or corporate," Mir said. "High-level project management. The kind of person who runs a multinational corporation or a covert ops unit."

Altman nodded. "That fits. The board members are all retired or semi-retired. They meet at exclusive clubs, charity galas, hunting lodges. I've never been invited, but I've heard rumors. They call themselves the 'Peregrine Group.' It's a joke—peregrine falcons are the fastest hunters in the world. They see themselves as apex predators."

Lita snorted. "Apex predators who hide in the shadows. Sounds like cowards to me."

"Cowards with unlimited resources," Royce said. "And we've just poked them with a very sharp stick. They tried to kill Altman and burn her house down. They're not going to stop there."

Okonkwo, who had been silent through most of the discussion, spoke up. "We need to go on the offensive. We've been reacting to them since the beginning. It's time to make them react to us."

"And how do we do that?" Dex asked. "We don't know their names, their faces, or their locations. We have a handful of dead drops and a retired Deputy Director who's already been marked for death."

"We have something better," Royce said slowly. "We have Altman's knowledge of the protocols. We can use the dead drops ourselves. We can impersonate the board."

Altman's eyes widened. "That's insane. The board uses multiple authentication layers—code words, biometric verification, time-sensitive keys. You can't fake that."

"Maybe not," Mir said, a gleam in her eye. "But I can intercept it. If I can position a relay node near the next scheduled dead drop, I can capture the incoming message before the intended recipient does. Then we can read it, analyze it, and potentially respond with our own message. It's a man-in-the-middle attack, but on a physical level."

Royce nodded. "The next drop is in Dallas, three days from now. We get there before the board's messenger, we set up the relay, and we grab whatever they're sending. That's our next move."

The team agreed. It was risky, but it was a plan. They spent the next day preparing—Dex modifying electronics, Mir coding intercept protocols, Lita and Okonkwo running combat drills in the snow. Ellis, still recovering, sat by the fire with Altman, asking questions about the board's structure, trying to fill in the gaps.

On the second day, a blizzard hit. The snow piled up against the cabin's windows, and the roads became impassable. Royce watched the storm with a growing sense of unease. It was an act of nature, but it felt like a warning.

That night, Royce's phone buzzed—the mystery contact again. "You're planning to hit the Dallas drop. Don't. It's a trap. The board knows about Altman's capture. They've set up a kill team to intercept anyone who shows. —A friend."

Royce showed the message to the team. "Our 'friend' is still looking out for us. But how do they know about Dallas?"

Mir frowned. "Either they're part of the board, or they're monitoring the board's communications. Either way, they're playing their own game."

"And we're the pawns," Lita said.

"Maybe," Royce admitted. "But if Dallas is a trap, we don't walk into it. We change the game. We don't go to Dallas. We go to the drop after that—Seattle. And we don't tell anyone outside this room."

Altman raised an eyebrow. "You're going to ignore the drop and hit the next one? That's a gamble. The Seattle drop isn't for ten days. The board might have moved on by then."

"Then we make them wait," Royce said. "We disappear for ten days. No phones, no internet, no contact with the outside world. We become ghosts. And when we reappear, we hit Seattle like a thunderbolt."

The team spent the next week in isolation, training, planning, and resting. Royce felt the tension slowly ease from his shoulders—not gone, but diminished. The cabin became a sanctuary, a temporary home where the only enemies were the wolves howling in the distance and the memory of the lives they'd left behind.

Ellis improved steadily. He was walking without pain, his color returning. He and Royce talked late into the nights, about their mother, about their childhood, about the years they'd wasted in silence. It was a reconciliation that had come at a terrible cost, but it was real.

On the ninth day, they packed up the van and drove west. The roads were clear, the skies blue, the journey uneventful. They reached Seattle two days before the scheduled drop, and Mir scouted the location—an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district, surrounded by chain-link fence and rusted containers.

"The drop is in the basement," Mir reported. "There's a false wall with a cavity behind it. Standard dead-drop protocol. I'll plant the relay node tonight. We'll have forty-eight hours of coverage before the board's messenger arrives."

Royce positioned the team: Lita and Okonkwo on the perimeter, Dex and Mir in a nearby building with the monitoring equipment, Ellis in the van as a mobile extraction point. Royce himself would be inside the warehouse, ready to intercept the messenger if necessary.

The night of the drop was cold and clear. Royce watched from a shadowed corner, his heart steady, his eyes fixed on the basement entrance. At 2:17 AM, a figure appeared—a man in a dark coat, moving with the efficiency of a professional. He descended into the basement, retrieved the package, and left without a pause.

Royce's earpiece crackled. Mir's voice: "I've got the intercepted message. It's encrypted, but it's got a header that matches the board's protocol. I'm decrypting now."

The seconds crawled. Royce held his breath.

Then Mir's voice, tight with excitement: "I've got it. It's a list of targets—five names. They're not board members. They're witnesses. People who've been cooperating with the federal investigation. The board is planning to kill them. And one of the names is—" A pause. "It's Helena Cross."

Royce felt the world tilt. Helena, the journalist who'd helped him expose Morrow, who'd published the first stories, who'd risked everything to get the truth out. She was on the board's hit list.

"When?" Royce demanded.

"The order is scheduled for tomorrow night. They're sending a team to her apartment in Kansas City. We have less than twenty-four hours."

Royce didn't hesitate. "We're going to Kansas City. Now. We warn her, we protect her, and we use her as bait to catch the board's hit team."

Lita cut in: "That's insane. We're not a security detail. We're five people with a van and a bag of tricks."

"Then we become a security detail," Royce said. "We don't have a choice. If Helena dies, the board wins."

They drove through the night, a relay race against time. Royce called Helena's burner from a payphone—she answered, groggy, but she recognized his voice.

"Royce? It's 3 AM."

"Listen to me carefully. The people we've been chasing are coming for you. They're planning to hit your apartment tomorrow night. You need to leave. Now. Go to a hotel, use cash, don't tell anyone where you're going."

Helena was silent for a moment. "How do you know this?"

"I intercepted their communications. I'll explain later. Just trust me."

"I do trust you," she said. "But I'm not running. I'm staying. If they want to kill me, I want them to try. I want to catch them on tape."

Royce swore under his breath. "Helena, that's suicide."

"Maybe. But it's also a story. And that's what I do."

Royce looked at his team, who were watching him with a mixture of concern and resignation. He knew that look—they'd already accepted that Helena was going to be part of the plan, whether he liked it or not.

"Fine," he said to her. "But you do it my way. We'll set up a surveillance perimeter. We'll take the hit team alive. And then you'll have your story."

He hung up and turned to the others. "Change of plans. We're not just protecting Helena—we're using her as live bait. We set up a trap in her apartment, we take the board's killers, and we get them to talk. That's our play."

Mir typed furiously. "I can rig her apartment with cameras and microphones. Dex can build a few non-lethal deterrents—flashbangs, pepper spray projectiles. Lita and Okonkwo can cover the approaches. You and I can be inside the apartment itself."

Ellis raised a hand. "And me?"

"You're on overwatch," Royce said. "You've got the best eyes in the team. You'll be in a building across the street, with a radio and a pair of binoculars. If you see anything, you tell us."

They arrived in Kansas City at dawn. Helena met them at a diner, her face pale but determined. She handed Royce a key to her apartment and a list of her neighbors' schedules.

"I've cleared out my personal effects," she said. "The apartment is a shell. Use it however you need."

They spent the day setting up. Mir's cameras were tiny, almost invisible. Dex's traps were hidden in the walls and ceilings. Lita and Okonkwo took positions in adjacent buildings, their weapons concealed. Royce and Mir settled into Helena's living room, their equipment packed in a duffel bag.

Night fell. The apartment was dark, the street quiet. Royce sat in a corner, watching the door, his hand resting on his Sig. Mir monitored her laptop, scanning for any electronic signals that might indicate the hit team's approach.

At 10:47 PM, Ellis's voice crackled through the earpiece: "I've got movement. Two figures, south side of the building, approaching the fire escape. They're wearing dark clothing, and they're carrying something—looks like a breaching tool."

Royce tensed. "They're coming through the window. Mir, get ready to trigger the flashbangs. Lita, Okonkwo—hold your positions until they're inside."

The window slid open—silent, professional. A figure dropped into the living room, followed by a second. They moved with purpose, their weapons drawn, their eyes scanning the darkness.

Royce stepped out of the shadow. "Evening, gentlemen. You're in the wrong apartment."

The lead figure raised his weapon, but Mir triggered the flashbangs before he could fire. The room erupted in blinding light and deafening sound. The two men crumpled, disoriented. Royce and Mir moved quickly, disarming them and securing them with zip ties.

Lita and Okonkwo entered through the front door, securing the perimeter. Royce knelt beside the nearest intruder, a man in his forties with a military bearing.

"Who sent you?" Royce demanded.

The man spat blood—he'd bitten his tongue in the fall. "You think I'll tell you? You're dead already. The board never misses twice."

"Maybe," Royce said. "But you're going to miss your next paycheck. You're going to federal custody. And if you're lucky, you'll get witness protection. If you're not lucky—" He let the implication hang.

The man's eyes flickered. He was weighing his options, just as Stroud had done. Royce had seen that calculation before.

"Tell me the name of the board member who gave the order," Royce pressed. "One name. That's all I need. You give me that, and I'll make sure you're in a comfortable cell, with three meals a day and a view of the yard."

The man looked at his partner, who was still unconscious. He made a decision. "The order came from a man called Vance. No last name. He's a former CIA officer—he works out of a private security firm in D.C. Called Sterling Group. That's all I know."

Royce memorized the name. "Thank you. You just bought yourself a deal."

He signaled the team to secure the prisoners. Helena emerged from the bedroom, where she'd been recording everything on a hidden camera. Her eyes were bright, her hands steady.

"I got it all," she said. "The break-in, the flashbang, the confession. This is going to make one hell of a story."

Royce looked at her, then at his team, then at the fallen intruders. They'd caught a lead—a name, a firm, a thread to pull. But Vance was just another layer, another proxy. The board was still hidden.

"Helena, write your story," he said. "But don't name Vance. Not yet. We need to use him to get deeper."

She nodded, understanding the need for discretion. "Then what's our next move?"

Royce looked out the window at the dark city. "We go to D.C. We find Sterling Group. And we find out who Vance is protecting."

The game was still on. And Royce was determined to see it to the end.

But as they packed up the apartment and prepared to move, his phone buzzed one last time. A text from the unknown friend: "Vance is a red herring. He's a patsy, like everyone else. The real board is older, darker, and closer than you think. Follow the money. —A friend."

Royce stared at the screen. The friend was cryptic, careful, but always a step ahead. He didn't know if they could be trusted, but they hadn't led him wrong yet.

"Follow the money," he murmured. "That's the oldest rule in the book."

He looked at Mir. "Can you trace the Sterling Group's financials? Find out where their real funding comes from?"

Mir was already typing. "Give me an hour. I'll find their invisible leash."

An hour later, she had an answer. "Sterling Group is funded by a holding company registered in the Caymans. That holding company is owned by a trust. And that trust is managed by—" She paused. "A law firm in New York. The same law firm that manages the board's other assets. The trail connects back to a single name: a man named August P. Whittaker. Retired Treasury official. Philanthropist. And one of the richest men in the country."

Royce felt a cold certainty settle in his bones. Whittaker. The name was familiar—he'd seen it in the Wichita documents, buried in a footnote. He'd assumed it was just another shell. But now it was the center of everything.

"Whittaker is the board," Royce said. "Or at least, he's the head of it. That's our target."

Lita shook her head. "A philanthropist? A retired official with a foundation and a reputation? We're going to take him down?"

"No," Royce said. "We're not going to take him down. We're going to expose him. And we're going to do it publicly, so the board has no choice but to crumble."

He looked at Helena. "You've got your story. August Whittaker, master puppeteer. That's the headline."

Helena smiled—a fierce, hungry smile. "I'll make it a Pulitzer."

Royce gathered his team. They had a name, a target, and a plan. The board was no longer a shadow. It was a man—and men could be brought down.

But as they drove out of Kansas City, heading east, Royce felt a shadow of doubt. The friend's text echoed in his mind: "Follow the money." He was doing that. But he couldn't shake the feeling that Whittaker was just another layer—another mask hiding a deeper truth.

The board was old, dark, and closer than they knew. And the real enemy might be standing in the room with them, watching their every move.

Royce pushed the thought aside. There was no room for paranoia. Only action.

And the next action was in New York, at the heart of the empire they were about to burn to the ground.