Chapter 28 - The False Flag in the Balkans
Ronan pulled the manila folder toward him, his gloved fingers flipping open the heavy cardstock. His dark eyes scanned the printed satellite photographs, encrypted wire logs, and customs manifests stamped with the seals of Interpol and the European Union.
“These manifests are falsified,” Ronan stated flatly, looking up at Elena without a trace of panic. “Any amateur hacker with a basic terminal could mock up a fake shipping log in twenty minutes.”
“They aren't mock-ups, Cain,” Elena retorted, crossing her arms defensively. “They were pulled directly from the encrypted servers of a rogue faction within your own organization. Someone inside Raven Hill is actively trying to frame you, piping illegal weapons through your legitimate commercial ports to trigger a multi-agency federal takedown.”
A cold silence fell over the dining hall.
I looked down at the documents, my forensic auditor instincts flaring up instantly. I reached out, pulling a specific page from the folder—a wire transfer confirmation dated three days prior, routing funds through a shell company in Zurich.
“Ronan,” I whispered, pointing to a specific transaction ID in the bottom corner. “Look at the routing number. This isn't Victor’s handwriting, and it’s not Harrison Cole’s code.”
Ronan leaned over, his brow furrowing as he studied the numbers. “It’s a legacy code,” he realized aloud. “An old operational signature belonging to... no. That’s impossible.”
“Who?” I pressed, holding his gaze.
“Julian’s old executive assistant,” Ronan muttered, the blood draining from his face as the terrifying puzzle pieces locked into place. “A man named Julian thought he trusted—David Vance, a distant cousin of the magistrate who managed our European logistics before the crash four years ago. We thought he died in the same explosion that nearly took my brother.”
Elena crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. “Well, your ghost is very much alive, Mr. Cain. And according to our informants, David Vance is currently holed up in a fortified villa just outside of Zagreb, orchestrating the final phase of his federal framing operation. If those shipments clear customs in Rotterdam tomorrow morning, your entire syndicate goes down under federal RICO statutes.”
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I looked up from the papers, turning my eyes toward Ronan. The man who ruled Ashport with an iron fist was staring at the folder, the ghosts of his past—his brother’s death, the betrayal of a trusted friend, the threat to his newly rebuilt family—converging into a single, explosive point of crisis.
“We don't have time to wait for a federal extradition treaty, Ronan,” I said, my voice steady, ice-cold, and unyielding. “If David Vance wants to play with European ghosts, we’re going to go down there and show him what a real nightmare looks like.”
