Three hours later, they entered the suburbs outside of Chicago. After miles of strip malls and overpasses, the city skyline rose against the sharp blue sky. Reed navigated through traffic, following Siren’s directions to the West Loop. It was a mix of converted warehouses and newer buildings that housed tech companies and consulting firms.
Northpoint Advisory Group was in a three-story brick building wedged between a wine bar and a yoga studio. The small lobby had tile floors, brass mailboxes, and a directory listing a therapist, an architect, and an acupuncturist.
They took the stairs to the third floor. James’s door was at the end of the hall. They walked through into a small waiting room. There were several chairs, and a wood side table with magazineson it. On the wall were framed photos of what looked like north African landscapes.
A middle-aged woman sat behind a reception window. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“We’re Sarah and Michael Philips. We have an appointment with James Okonkwo at 2 PM.”
She pressed a button and the door to the adjoining room clicked open. Reed held the door for Siren and they walked through.
James’s office had big windows looking out on the street below. Bookshelves lined one wall, with volumes on military history and intelligence theory. A prayer rug was rolled up in the corner.
James stood from behind the desk and came around to greet her, taking both of her hands in his. James was a muscular, attractive black man in his late forties.
“Siren,” he said, warmly. “You look good. Better than the last time I saw you in Kandahar.”
“That’s a low bar,” she chuckled.
His eyes moved to Reed. “This must be the witness.”
“Reed Bright,” she said, her voice almost possessive.
“Reed.” James extended a hand.
“Thank you for seeing us,” Reed said.
He invited them to sit in the two chairs on the other side of his desk. “Siren doesn’t ask for favors often. When she calls, I listen. What do you need?”
Siren handed James Diana’s files. “We’re looking for the person who runs this LLC in Wyoming. The officer names cannot be tracked. We assume they are pseudonyms. We’ve traced the money flow from Ashcroft Holdings, and we assume this LLC is a private military contractor involved in anti-shifter operations. Responsible for several murders in our area.”
James studied the documents. “Who filed the incorporation paperwork?”
“A law firm in Cheyenne. Harmon & Associates,” Siren said.
James typed, staring at his computer. “Harmon & Associates has filed incorporation paperwork for six subsidiaries of Vanguard Security International.”
“Can you connect Vanguard Security to Teton Resource Group?”
“It’s the same law firm. Let me pull up Vanguard’s corporate profile.” He typed for a minute, scrolled on his mouse. “It’s a Virginia outfit with government contracts on the books and legitimate work on paper.”
“Who runs Vanguard?” Siren asked
James typed. “Thomas Draven is the founder and CEO. Doing a background search.” They waited while James typed into his databases. “Looks like he’s former military. An army major. Left about eleven years ago and founded Vanguard within a year.”
“The Major,” Reed said quietly.
James looked up at him, raising an eyebrow.
“On the recording of the murder I captured, Carl Unger’s handler mentioned the Major not liking to leave loose ends.”
“Do you have a photo of Draven?” Siren asked.
James clicked a few times. “Sending it to your phone.”
A moment later, she got a ping on her cellphone. The photo showed a man in his early fifties. Gray hair buzzed short. Deep-set eyes, a nose that had been broken at least once.
“This is him,” she said as a statement. “This is the man who’s been hunting us.”
