Chapter 13 - The Ghost from the Past
The phone call to Deputy Rowan from a secure burner phone was brief, urgent, and left no room for argument.
"Rowan, it's not a corporate grab. It's family," Lena said, pacing the length of a quiet Charleston side street beneath the sprawling branches of a moss-draped live oak. "Marcus Vance. My uncle. He’s behind the Vanguard shell."
Over the line, Rowan let out a low whistle. "Marcus? I thought that son of a gun skipped town back in '12 after the state regulators started sniffing around his construction loans. People said he boarded a freighter out of Savannah and never looked back."
"People were wrong," Lena replied, her jaw tight. "He didn't leave the country. He went white-collar, cleaned up his portfolio, and built a syndicate buying up distressed historic properties across the Southeast through fraudulent probate loopholes. Maple Grove isn't just an old house to him. It's the crown jewel. My grandfather's original land grant sits on the exact path of the state's proposed commercial freight corridor expansion. If he gets the deed, he sells the whole tract to the logistics syndicate for eight figures."
"And leaves your grandmother out on the street with nothing," Rowan added grimly. "What's your play, Lena? You want me to issue an arrest warrant for identity theft and corporate fraud?"
"Not yet," Lena said, her eyes narrowing as a black sedan slowed down at the end of the block, its tinted windows catching the glare of the midday sun. "If we move too fast legally, his high-priced corporate lawyers will file a motion for summary judgment and tie us up in probate court for five years. Grandma doesn't have five years. I need to draw him out. I need him to think he's winning."
"And how do you plan on doing that?" Rowan asked skeptically.
"By letting him know I found the file," Lena whispered. "I'm heading back to North Carolina tonight, but I'm leaving a digital breadcrumb trail that says I'm vulnerable. Meet me at the old rail depot outside Fort Marston at midnight. Bring your service weapon and a digital cloning kit. It's time to set a trap."
She hung up before Rowan could argue, slipping the burner phone into her coat pocket. As she turned toward her rental car, the black sedan that had been crawling down the street suddenly accelerated, pulling up sharply to the curb. The passenger-side door swung open, and a man in a tailored gray suit stepped out, blocking her path.
May you like
"Major Vance," the man said smoothly, his smile entirely devoid of warmth. "Mr. Vance sends his regards. He’d like a word about your family’s estate before you do anything regrettable."
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