Page 3 of A Ballad of Blackbirds and Betrayal

“Dead ends by design,” Max continued.“But money always leaves a trail, no matter how well it’s hidden.We’ve been tracking wire transfers for months, building a pattern.”

Eden leaned forward, tapping a document on the screen.Her movements were fluid, elegant.“We traced a series of offshore transfers that originated from what appeared to be a legitimate defense contractor lobbying fund.”

“Appears is the key word.”Nate picked up the thread, his hand remaining lightly on Eden’s shoulder, a silent connection between them.“The fund was used to disguise payments to at least three known assassins over a five-year period.One of those payments happened two days before Jane was killed.”

Atticus listened, absorbing the information like parched soil takes water, his mind already connecting implications, considering contingencies.His team worked in seamless concert, each picking up where another left off, no wasted words or repetition.This was why they were the best—not just individual excellence, but collective meticulousness.

“I’ve spent the last month unraveling the encryption on these accounts,” Cal said, bringing up a new screen of complex financial data, columns of numbers and coded entries that would be meaningless to most observers.“It took breaking through eleven layers of security and tracking ghost transfers through twenty-seven different banks, but I finally found the source.”

Cal paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, a rare hesitation from a man who typically moved at the speed of thought.“Atticus, you need to prepare yourself for this.”

“I’ve been preparing for eight years,” Atticus replied, his voice calm despite the sudden acceleration of his pulse.“Show me.”

The screen changed again, displaying a photograph that made Atticus’s blood run cold.Senator Warren Mitchell smiled from the image, shaking hands with a military contractor at a fundraising event.The date stamp showed it was taken just one week before Jane’s murder.

Mitchell—distinguished, silver haired, with the confident smile of a man accustomed to power.The very picture of American political success, with his perfect family and his impeccable credentials.The man who’d made his reputation championing increased military funding and enhanced national security.

“Mitchell?”Atticus’s voice was dangerously quiet, the kind of quiet that preceded avalanches.

“Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee,” Cal confirmed, his expression grim.“And the man who’s been financing a series of black-market weapons deals for the past decade.”

“The same deals you were investigating eight years ago,” Max added, his voice grave.“Before the hit.”

Atticus stared at Mitchell’s face, memories flooding back in a torrent he couldn’t stop.The senator at Jane’s funeral, clasping his hand, offering personal condolences and promises of justice.The man who’d stood beside Atticus at Anna’s hospital bed, assuring him that no expense would be spared in her care.The same man who had appointed Atticus to the task force investigating arms dealers supplying terrorist cells in Afghanistan.The man who’d had access to every detail of Atticus’s findings.

The betrayal cut deeper for its familiarity.Mitchell had been more than a political connection—he’d been a mentor, someone Atticus had respected and trusted.

“You were getting too close,” Jade said softly, watching Atticus with the careful assessment of someone who knew exactly how dangerous he could be.“He eliminated the threat.”

A muscle ticced in Atticus’s jaw, the only visible sign of the tsunami of rage building within him.When he spoke, his voice was perfectly controlled, all emotion locked behind the steel doors of his discipline.

“Show me everything.”

For the next twenty minutes, his team laid out the evidence—meticulously gathered, cross-referenced, verified.Mitchell’s connections to black-market arms dealers in Eastern Europe.His financial ties to research facilities developing experimental bioweapons.The systematic elimination of anyone who began asking questions too persistently.

The cold stillness settled over Atticus—the combat mindset that had served him through three tours of duty and countless black ops.His breathing remained measured, his heartbeat steady.Emotion was a luxury he’d indulge later, in private.Now was the time for strategy, for planning the dismantling of Warren Mitchell’s empire piece by painful piece.

“What’s his security like now?”he asked, his mind already calculating angles of approach, vulnerabilities, pressure points.

“Two private bodyguards, ex-Secret Service,” Nate said, pulling up personnel files.“Thomas Reeves and Marcus Dawson.Both capable, but neither exceptional.Plus a driver who’s former Special Forces—Eric Martinez.More dangerous than the other two combined.”

“I’m more concerned about this,” Cal interrupted, bringing up a new file on-screen.“Dr.Sabrina Wells.Trauma surgeon at Dallas Memorial Hospital.She’s been making inquiries about Mitchell’s business connections to several pharmaceutical research companies.”

A photograph appeared—a woman in her late thirties with intelligent amber eyes and an air of no-nonsense competence about her.Her dark hair was pulled back from a face that was more striking than conventionally beautiful, with high cheekbones and a determined set to her jaw.Nothing in her appearance suggested someone who would deliberately walk into danger, yet the set of her mouth spoke of stubborn persistence.

“Why is she looking into Mitchell?”Atticus asked, studying the woman’s face.

“She’s treated multiple patients with unusual symptoms consistent with exposure to an experimental bioweapon,” Cal explained, bringing up medical reports with sections highlighted.“Four patients in the past three months, all with identical symptoms—hemorrhaging, neurological damage, rapid organ failure.Her research led her to a black-market lab bankrolled through one of Mitchell’s shell companies.”

Eden leaned forward, her brow furrowed.“She’s been requesting information using hospital research protocols, but she’s hitting dead ends.Recently, she’s started reaching out to contacts at the CDC and NIH.”

“She’s civilian,” Jade noted, her tactical mind already identifying complications.“And she’s asking dangerous questions in dangerous places.If Mitchell follows his usual pattern, she’s already on his elimination list.”

Atticus studied the woman’s photograph, noting the intensity in her eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw.“Mitchell will eliminate her if she gets too close to the truth.We need to know what she knows before that happens.”

“I’ve already got tickets for you to attend a fundraiser at Dallas Memorial tomorrow night,” Cal said with a self-satisfied smirk.“Dr.Sabrina Wells is on the organizing committee.Seems she’s passionate about trauma care for underprivileged communities.The event is a charity auction to fund a new emergency care wing.”

The corner of Atticus’s mouth lifted slightly—not quite a smile, but the closest approximation he allowed himself these days.“Convenient.”

---