Chapter 12 - Whispers in the Senate
The marble halls of the United States Capitol gleamed beneath chandeliers of Czechoslovakian crystal, casting shimmering gold light across the velvet-draped ballrooms. Wealth, power, and deceit mingled in the air like heavy perfume.
I stood near the mezzanine balustrade, wearing an emerald-green silk evening gown with an open back that skillfully concealed the dermal Kevlar lining beneath the fabric and the twin carbon-fiber ceramic blades strapped flush against my inner thighs. My hair was swept into an intricate updo, exposing an ear-cuff that doubled as an encrypted military transmitter linking directly to Vance’s covert communications team.
"Audio check, Ghost One," the low voice of Sergeant Miller crackled in my ear canal. "You are green across the board. Target is at the center bar, twelve o'clock, conversing with French diplomatic delegates."
I scanned the room, lifting a flute of untouched champagne to my lips.
There he was. Senator Julian Sterling.
Dressed in an impeccable bespoke tuxedo, Sterling wore the self-satisfied grin of a man who owned the judges, the generals, and the ground they walked upon. Standing beside him, unexpectedly, was none other than my father, Admiral Arthur Hayes.
My hand froze around the crystal stem of my glass.
Arthur wore his full dress whites, his chest heavy with ribbons of past valor, looking every bit the proud military patriarch. Yet there was an unmistakable tension in his jaw. Since the graduation incident, since he had watched me command a black-ops strike force from the shadows of his own estate, the proud arrogance had evaporated from his posture. He looked like an old warrior who had suddenly realized he had spent his life guarding the wrong fortress.
"Arthur, my dear friend!" Sterling’s voice echoed across the quiet hum of the mezzanine as he clapped my father on the shoulder. "The Navy must miss you terribly. But your son—Daniel! What a tragedy about his injury during training. Still, we have big plans for him in the Special Warfare Directorate."
Arthur’s voice was measured, tight. "Daniel is still recovering, Julian. The Gulf transfer order is premature. I didn't authorize his name to be submitted for classified deployment."
"Oh, come now, Arthur," Sterling chuckled smoothly, his smile cold as dry ice. "A father doesn't dictate naval deployments. Besides, the country requires sacrifices from true patriots. Not all Hayes children can be... disappointments, after all. What was your daughter’s name again? Maya? Still drifting through life without a compass, I presume?"
Hearing him speak my name with such flippant disgust made the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
Arthur’s eyes flared with sudden, dangerous fury. He stepped an inch closer to the Senator, his voice dropping into a harsh gravel. "You keep my daughter’s name out of your mouth, Julian. You don't know the first damn thing about what Maya is capable of."
Sterling raised an amused eyebrow, surprised by the sudden bite from his old friend. "Touchy tonight, aren't we, Admiral? Don't let your regrets cloud your judgment. Just ensure the Coronado supply manifests clear through your desk before midnight. The country's security depends on it."
From thirty feet away, I read Sterling’s lips with surgical precision.
*Coronado supply manifests.*
"Miller, are you reading this?" I whispered sub-vocally into my collar mic.
"Loud and clear, Ghost One," Miller replied. "Sterling isn't transferring Daniel for routine deployment. He's moving a prototype railgun battery through Coronado Naval Base under the cover of Daniel's SEAL team deployment. Daniel is being set up as the fall guy for an illegal arms sale to a private Eurasian cartel."
"Not on my watch," I murmured.
Sterling excused himself from my father, walking toward the private elevator leading to the subterranean committee archives. His personal detail—two broad-shouldered men with classic private-military gaits, earpieces, and unbuttoned tuxedos concealing sidearms—shadowed him like guard dogs.
I set my champagne glass on a passing waiter’s tray and slipped into the corridor behind them.
The corridor lights dimmed as the heavy doors of the Senatorial wing swung shut behind me. The noise of laughter and classical strings faded into an ominous, ringing silence.
"You're in restricted territory, miss," a voice called out behind me.
I turned slowly. One of Sterling’s bodyguards had peeled off from the elevator and stood six feet away, his hand casually resting inside his jacket pocket. His eyes were hard, scanning my dress, looking for vulnerabilities.
"I apologize," I said, pitching my voice high, delicate, and laced with alcohol-fueled embarrassment. "I was looking for the powder room. The terrace was entirely crowded..."
The guard chuckled darkly, taking a predatory step closer. "Wrong floor, sweetheart. Hand over your credentials, or this night is going to end in a federal holding cell."
He reached out an arm to grab my wrist.
In a fraction of a heartbeat, the helpless socialite vanished.
I stepped inside his reach, seized his outstretched wrist with my left hand, and drove the heel of my palm upward directly into his nasal septum with a sickening crunch. Before he could scream, my right forearm snapped around his neck, cinching into a rear-naked choke. I dragged him backward into the shadows of an ornate alcove, kicking the back of his knee so he collapsed quietly beneath me.
"Sweetheart was your first mistake," I whispered into his ear as his eyes rolled back and his body went limp.
May you like
I pulled his security keycard from his jacket pocket, took his concealed Glock 43, cleared the corridor, and sprinted toward the elevator doors just as the indicator light dinged for Sub-Level 2.
***
