Sarah closed her eyes briefly, her hand finding Tank's tags again. When she opened them, her expression had hardened into something Griff recognized—the look of someone who'd decided to fight back with everything they had. "Then we'd better make sure we document everything because they just declared war on the wrong accountant."
Doc smiled grimly. "That's my girl. Now, let's show them what happens when you corner intelligent women with laptops and nothing left to lose. I'll get the team through the federal perimeter. You focus on burning your exe’s world to the ground."
"Ronan," Griff said into comms. "Sarah's building the evidence trail. But we need more time."
"How much?"
Sarah glanced at her screens. "That sixty-second window we talked about? Forget it. When Buckley activates the real Charleston Option, I'll need at least three minutes to capture everything—the assassinations, the money, all of it."
"Then we'd better make sure you get it," Ronan replied. "All units, new objective: buy Sarah time. Whatever it takes."
Doc was already working three phones simultaneously, her network of old intelligence contacts spinning into action. "I can delay the marshals another four minutes. After that, things get interesting."
Through the truck's window, Griff could see federal agents taking positions around the Charleston Place's historic entrance. Inside, Sarah worked with fierce concentration while Doc orchestrated chaos with the calm efficiency of someone who'd toppled governments over afternoon tea.
They were out of time, out of options, and about to be framed as terrorists.
But they had something Buckley hadn't counted on—a betrayed forensic accountant with the skills to unravel his conspiracy, a former intelligence officer with more tricks than a magician's convention, and a team willing to risk everything to give them the chance.
"David always underestimated me," Sarah said quietly, not looking up from her screens. "Said I cared too much about the details. Guess he's about to learn why that was a mistake."
Griff squeezed her shoulder. "Make him regret it."
Her smile dazzled him. "Count on it."
29
Sarah attackedall three of her keyboards simultaneously, documenting every fraudulent transaction while the afternoon sun beat down on Charleston. The food truck's air conditioning fought a losing battle against the Southern humidity and her rising panic.
"Got another one," she muttered, tracking a payment from a shell company in Cyprus.
Griff stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder, his presence steady as an anchor. Through his comm unit, she could hear the team's chatter—positions, observations, the ordinary rhythm of surveillance.
"Sarah, you're building a good case," Doc said from her position by the truck's service window. "But who are you planning to send it to?"
"FBI Financial Crimes. I still have contacts?—"
"Had contacts," Griff interrupted quietly. "Pemberton knew exactly who to burn."
Sarah's stomach clenched, but she kept typing. "Then the Inspector General's office. The DOJ. Someone has to?—"
"Marshals," Maya's voice crackled through Griff's earpiece,loud enough for Sarah to hear. "Three vehicles approaching the Marriott across the street. Full tactical."
The Marriott. Where Axel was stationed.
Sarah's hands froze over the keyboards. "They're going for Axel."
"Axel, get out. Now." Ronan's command was sharp. "North exit."
"Negative, north is blocked." That was Deke. "Two more units?—"
"South stairwell," Sarah said, pulling up the hotel's blueprint on her screen. "There's a service corridor that connects to the parking garage."
She heard Axel's breathing through the comms, rapid but controlled. "Moving."
"Lord, please," Sarah whispered, fingers finding her cross. "Guide his steps. Blind their eyes. Give us time."
Griff's hand tightened on her shoulder. On one of her screens, she pulled up news feeds, searching for?—
