Chapter 40 - The Frequency from the Capital
Margaret’s eyes snapped open.
The sound hadn't come from her cracked personal phone. It had come from the encrypted federal terminal mounted inside the transport vehicle’s dash—the one Marshal Marcus Kane had used before Ethan neutralized him.
The screen, which had been locked on emergency standby, suddenly blinked blue.
A high-priority military-grade data transmission overrode the system.
Margaret leaned closer, her pulse spiking once again.
On the screen was an interactive satellite tracking map. A red flashing beacon was centered directly over their location: *Elm Street Alley, Millfield, NY.*
Below the map, an automated audio stream decoded itself with a burst of static, followed by a calm, cultured male voice speaking through the vehicle’s high-fidelity speakers.
The voice did not belong to Arthur Sinclair. It did not belong to anyone in Millfield.
It was the deep, resonant, unmistakable voice of United States Senator William Sterling—the senior chairman of the Senate Armed Services and Judiciary Committee in Washington, D.C. A man who appeared on national television every Sunday morning discussing homeland security.
*"Transport Unit 4,"* Senator Sterling’s recorded voice said smoothly through the speakers. *"Report status on Subject 09-Noah. Clara has confirmed the house is sanitized. The secondary buyer from the diplomatic consulate is waiting at Teterboro Airport. Secure the child, terminate the mother and the grandmother, and escort Ethan to the private airstrip. Arthur’s arrest was a minor operational inconvenience; the syndicate’s harvest continues as scheduled."*
Margaret froze. The blood in her veins didn't just turn cold; it vanished entirely.
Clara hadn't been the head of the serpent.
Clara and Arthur Sinclair were merely the regional supply managers. The real buyers, the real architects of this multi-billion-dollar human harvest, were sitting in the halls of Congress, protected by diplomatic immunity, federal agencies, and the highest offices in the nation.
Before Margaret could scream to Ethan, the dashboard radio crackled again.
This time it was live.
A voice, cold and tactical, spoke over the tactical frequency:
*"Command, this is Strike Team Alpha. We have visual on the transport vehicle behind the Millfield church. Sniper has eyes on the mother and child. Confirm authorization for green light."*
Fifty yards away, in the dense tree line of the cemetery, a tiny, ruby-red laser dot appeared.
It danced across the gravel.
It climbed up the tire of the SUV.
And settled squarely in the center of four-year-old Noah’s chest.
May you like
Margaret’s breath died in her throat. She looked at Ethan, who was still holding his weeping wife, completely oblivious to the beam of death resting on his son’s heart.
Margaret’s hand slowly reached for the gear shift.
