Chapter 501
[ 511 words ]
Chapter 501:
She didn’t fully understand the depth of his metaphor, the history of poison that he was alluding to, but she understood the intent. It was a declaration of protection. For her. He was clearing the ground so she could grow. She chose to trust him.
“Alright,” she said, a new resolve in her voice. She stood up and began rolling up the sleeves of her shirt. “Then I believe a gardener is owed a very good meal. I have a promise to keep.”
A genuine, warm smile finally returned to the General’s face. The hard lines of anger softened. He gave a slight nod, a gesture of permission and anticipation.
As Caroline turned to leave for the kitchen, Carson Finch entered the dining room through a side door. He moved with a silent urgency, his face a mask of grim professionalism. In his hand, he clutched a thick manila envelope, its flap sealed with a heavy, dark red wax seal.
The General saw him, and his smile vanished. He recognized the look on his chief of staff’s face. It was the look of a man delivering bad news. He rose from his chair. “Carson. My study.” He gave his aide a look that conveyed the need for absolute privacy.
Carson nodded once and followed the General out of the room.
𝘙е𝘤o𝘮𝗺𝗲𝗇𝖽 𝗀a𝗹𝗇o𝘃els.cо𝘮 𝘁𝗈 y𝗈𝘂𝘳 𝘧𝗿і𝖾n𝖽𝘀
Upstairs, in the soundproof, wood-paneled study, Carson locked the heavy oak door behind them. He walked to the massive mahogany desk and placed the envelope squarely in the center of the leather blotter.
The General sat down, put on a pair of reading glasses, and slit the envelope open with a silver letter opener. He pulled out a thin file of documents.
He read the first page. Then the second. A thick, purple vein began to throb at his temple. His knuckles, where he gripped the edges of the paper, turned white.
The report was an in-depth forensic follow-up on what Jarrod had already told him, a confirmation and expansion of the intelligence his grandson had uncovered weeks ago. Jarrod had informed him, in a terse, encrypted communication, that Walter Thompson’s death was no accident. But Jarrod’s resources in the field had been limited. Now Carson’s team had filled in the gaps. Detailed metallurgical analysis. Microscopic tool marks on the recovered fragments of the brake line. Evidence of a precise, professional severing, carried out by someone with military or intelligence training. It was no longer a suspicion; it was a documented assassination.
The General’s hand slammed down on the desk, rattling a pen holder. He had known the broad strokes from Jarrod. But seeing the cold, clinical detail, the proof that someone had reached into the life of an innocent man and ended it with surgical precision, ignited a fury he had not felt in years. “Find them,” he snarled, his voice a low, lethal whisper. “Jarrod has already identified the what. Now I want the who. Use every asset we have. Every dark contact, every back-channel favor. I don’t care what it costs or who we have to burn. Find the people who did this.”
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