Page 16 of Old Money, Deadly Secrets

“We’re clear. No tail,” Dog replied, his jaw tight. “Sniper fire. Single shot, suppressed. Came from the south side of the street outside the clinic, maybe a rooftop. And her car was dead, wouldn’t even crank. Shot took out her driver’s side window she was the target.” He moved around to the passenger side door and gently helped Margaret out. “She’s in shock. we need to get her inside and settled.”

Moose crossed his massive arms, his expression darkening. “That wasn’t a coincidence. It was a kill box. They disabled the vehicle to keep her on the X.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Dog added.

“You’re right,” Bear said, his gaze hard as he processed the information. He turned to Moose. “Get a flatbed. A discreet one. Tow that car back here. I want to know exactly what they did to the engine. Take Viper with you and sweep the street for brass or a nest. While y’all are there, grab her stuff from the clinic. She's not going back there.”

“On it,” Moose said, pulling his phone out to call Viper.

Bear lifted a hand to his earpiece as they walked toward the house. “Link, package is secure inside the perimeter. No immediate threats on scanners. Go ahead and sound the all-clear, but restrict everyone to the main compound until further notice.”

He opened the door to the main farmhouse. “Get her inside to Flora and Eloise. Get her settled. We have the conference call set for tonight at 1900 with Hank, Swede, and your brother. I’ll see what Link has dug up on this guy before then.”

Dog supported Margaret’s weight, guiding her up the porch steps and into the warm, bustling kitchen of the farmhouse. The scent of simmering herbs and baked bread was a stark, comforting contrast to the acrid smell of gunpowder that still clung to them.

Flora was already there, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her kind face etched with concern as she watched them enter. Behind her stood Eloise, the farm’s formidable but fiercely protective caretaker.

“Flora, Eloise, this is Margaret,” Dog said softly, his hand lingering on Margaret’s trembling shoulder.

“We’ve got her, Dog,” Flora said, her voice radiating maternal calm, a balm to Margaret’s frayed nerves.

Eloise stepped forward, handing a thick woolen blanket to Flora before turning a stern eye on Dog. “Ach, she needs quiet und sugar in her system, not a hovering giant smelling like sawdust, ja? Get out from my kitchen and go to the War Room. Let Link und Bear deal with you. Go on, shoo!”

Dog knew better than to argue with Eloise. He gave Margaret’s shoulder one last reassuring squeeze before turning on his heel and heading down the hall to the converted command center they called the War Room.

The room was cool and dim, lit mainly by the glow of half a dozen massive monitors. Link’s fingers flew across the keyboard, his brow furrowed in concentration. Beside one monitor, a small framed photo caught the light, a snapshot of Noor, Link’s girlfriend, with Sammy and her twin daughters, Yasmin and Amina. Their once fractured lives now woven tightly together, the photo served as a quiet reminder of the stakes beyond the glowing screens.

Bear stood behind him, arms crossed, staring intently at a digital dossier on the main screen. His gaze was sharp, eyes narrowing as he absorbed the information.

“Tell me we have something,” Dog said, dropping into a rolling chair next to them.

“We have a lot of somethings, and none of them are good,” Link said without looking up from his screens. He tapped a key, bringing up a polished, high-resolution photo of a man in a tailored suit. His smile was predatory, his eyes cold. “Charles Winslow. Richmond aristocracy. He’s got his hands in real estate, tech, and private equity. On paper, he’s a saint. Philanthropist of the year, major political donor.”

“And off paper?” Dog asked, rubbing the tension from his jaw.

“Off paper, he’s a ghost running a massive shell game,” Link replied, pulling up a web of corporate logos and offshore accounts. “I’ve only been digging for twenty minutes, but the layers of LLCs and dummy corporations he uses to move money are staggering. He’s heavily invested in underhanded dealings: we’re talking political manipulation, bribery, buying off local judges to rezone commercial properties, and hostile takeovers that ruin lives. If you cross him, you lose your business, your reputation, or you just disappear into the legal system.”

Bear leaned forward, his eyes narrowing at the screen. “A man with that kind of money and political cover doesn’t just hire a street thug to take out his runaway wife. He hires professionals.”

Just then, Bear’s comm crackled to life. “Bear, Viper here. We swept the scene. Found a well-policed sniper nest on the rooftop south of the clinic. Suppressed rounds, no brass left behind, minimal disturbance. Very clean. The shooter knew what they were doing.”

Bear nodded grimly. “Copy that, Viper. Stay vigilant out there.” He looked at Link. “Anything on cameras in that area?”

Link was already pulling up a grid of street views. “Working on it. Most of the local businesses have basic surveillance, nothing high-res, but I’ll see if I can find an exterior shot of someone leaving that rooftop or the general vicinity. If they were as ‘clean’ as Viper says, they probably had an escape plan.”

“Exactly,” Dog agreed, connecting the dots. “Which explains the suppressed rifle, the disabled vehicle, and the precise shot placement. He has the resources to put a highly trained hitter on her tail without breaking a sweat.”

Dog let out a slow, heavy breath. The situation was escalating faster than he anticipated. “Get everything you can consolidated into a brief. When we get on the 1900 call with Hank and my brother, they’re going to need to know exactly what kind of hornets’ nest we just kicked.”

11 - MARGARET

Margaret woke to a room bathed in the soft, amber glow of a bedside lamp. For a terrifying second, her heart hammered against her ribs, the echo of the gunshot ringing in her ears, but then the smell of clean linen and lavender reminded her of where she was. She was at the farm. She was safe.

She sat up, the afghan still clutched around her shoulders. The house was solid and quiet up here, but from downstairs, the muffled, melodic sound of women laughing and children playing drifted up through the floorboards. Craving the anchor of other people, she swung her legs out of bed and slowly made her way downstairs.

She paused at the archway leading into the sprawling living room, allowing her eyes to adjust and her mind to process the scene before her. It was a picture of beautiful, chaotic domesticity, utterly foreign yet strangely appealing. A fire crackled in the massive stone hearth, casting a golden light over the three women sitting on plush sofas, nursing oversized glasses of red wine. Toys were scattered across a well-worn rug, and the general air was one of comfortable, unpretentious ease. Margaret’s gaze lingered on the scattered toys. A quiet pang stirred within her as memories of her own children flickered to the surface. Their lives had always been distant and orderly, so far removed from this warm disorder. She straightened her cashmere sweater, smoothing an invisible wrinkle.

“Look who’s awake,” Flora said, her face lighting up with a warm smile as she spotted Margaret in the doorway. She immediately stood, grabbing a spare glass from the coffee table. “Come sit. I was just about to pour another round.”