While Marcus worked, I attended to Olivia, helped her wash up, changed bandages, prepared a light breakfast. Her condition was stable, but the bruises had acquired a gruesome purple-green hue. Looking at my daughter’s battered face was physically painful.
“Mom,” she said quietly when we were alone in the kitchen. “I’m scared.”
“I know, honey.” I gently hugged her. “But we’ll handle it. We always have.”
“Not for myself,” she shook her head. “For the baby. And because of you. Lucille won’t stop. She has too much to lose if the truth comes out.”
“That’s exactly why we must act quickly.” I squeezed her hand resolutely.
Marcus worked all day, calling, writing, analyzing information. He went out a couple of times to call from a payphone. He returned with news.
“Doc Wallace will come tomorrow morning,” he reported. “In the meantime, there’s something interesting.”
He spread out printouts he had brought with him on the table.
“The Hope Foundation has existed for seven years,” he began. “During this time, about three hundred million dollars passed through it, most of it from large corporations that reduce their taxable base this way. Seems legal. Money goes to charity, companies get tax breaks and a positive image.”
“But in reality?” I asked.
“In reality, about sixty percent of the funds go nowhere.” Marcus pointed to a diagram he had drawn. “Shell companies, fake contracts, inflated estimates—classic money laundering scheme.”
“And no one noticed for seven years?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Someone noticed,” Marcus said grimly. “Two years ago, a journalist started an investigation. A month later, he got into a car accident. Miraculously survived, but is now paralyzed. The investigation naturally stopped.”
Olivia turned even paler. “I didn’t know.”
“How could you know?” Marcus shrugged. “They didn’t write about it in the papers. Information from private sources.”
“So what now?” I asked. “Go to the police with this data?”
Marcus shook his head. “Useless. The family has too much influence. The report will get lost, evidence will disappear, and you’ll be in even greater danger.”
“Then what?” I was starting to lose patience.
“The plan remains the same,” said Marcus firmly. “We go directly to Arthur Sterling. But now we’ll have more trump cards.” He pointed to the laptop screen. “My friends found something else interesting. Besides the charity foundation, Lucille has accounts in foreign banks. The amounts are impressive. About two million euros.”
“The origin of this money is dubious?”
“Does her husband know?” Asked Olivia.
“Judging by everything, no.” Marcus shook his head. “The accounts are opened in Lucille’s maiden name, carefully masked, but my guys found them.”
“So she’s not just stealing from the foundation,” I said thoughtfully. “She’s also hiding money from her husband, preparing a golden parachute.”
“Looks like it,” Marcus agreed. “And this fact might be decisive. Arthur Sterling might turn a blind eye to fraud with the foundation—after all, it’s donors’ money, not his. But personal betrayal? He won’t forgive.”
“Exactly,” Olivia finished for him. “He’s a man of the old school. For him, family is primarily a business partnership. Loyalty is above all.”
Evening was falling. We were preparing for departure. Marcus checked the car, made sure the tracker was securely fastened to the stump by the house. I packed the essentials: warm clothes, medicines, food. Olivia was silent and focused.
“Time to go,” Marcus said when it got dark outside. “I’ll drive. You both get in the back seat. Duck down when we drive through the village.”
We left the house. The air was cold, smelling of pine resin and approaching snow. I helped Olivia into the car, covered her with a blanket. Marcus checked the pistol I gave him and hid it under his jacket.
“Everything will be fine,” he said, starting the engine. “Grandpa didn’t teach us survival for nothing.”
The Chevy quietly moved off. We didn’t turn on the headlights until we hit the logging road. I looked back at the house that had been my refuge for so many years. Now it looked lonely and vulnerable.
When we had driven a couple of miles, the sound of a helicopter engine was heard in the distance. Marcus instantly pulled off the road and killed the engine.
“Get down,” he commanded.
We froze, listening to the night. The helicopter was approaching. Its searchlight slid over the treetops. They were looking for us.
“They wouldn’t use a helicopter,” whispered Olivia. “Too noticeable.”
“It’s probably the National Guard or something,” Marcus nodded, but remained tense.
The helicopter flew a mile or so away from us and disappeared over the horizon.
“Let’s go,” Marcus said, starting the engine again. “The hardest part starts soon.”
The road was getting worse. The Chevy bounced over roots and bumps, climbing deeper into the woods. Olivia winced in pain with every jolt but didn’t complain.
“Just a little more,” Marcus encouraged her. “We’ll be there soon.”
After an hour of driving through the impassable woods, we saw the dark silhouette of the hunting cabin against the night sky. A small log structure standing on the shore of a black-as-ink forest lake.
“We’re here.” Marcus exhaled with relief, turning off the engine.
I helped Olivia out of the car. She stood leaning on me and breathing deeply in the night air.
“How quiet,” she whispered. “No city sounds.”
“We’ll be safe here,” Marcus said, opening the creaky door of the cabin. “At least until we’re ready to strike.”
Inside, it smelled of dampness and old wood. Marcus lit a kerosene lamp he brought with him. The light snatched a simple setting from the darkness: a wooden table, a couple of benches, a potbelly stove, narrow bunks against the wall.
“Not the Ritz-Carlton, of course,” Marcus chuckled. “But it’ll do for our purposes.”
I sat Olivia on a bench, draped a jacket over her shoulders. She looked exhausted, but determination read in her eyes.
“What’s next?” she asked.
Marcus started unloading the brought items. “Doc Wallace arrives tomorrow morning. He’ll examine you and the baby, and in the meantime, I’ll prepare our meeting with Arthur Sterling.”
“How will you force him to meet with us?” I asked. “People like him don’t just meet people off the street.”
Marcus smiled mysteriously. “I have a plan he won’t be able to ignore.” He took a small satellite phone out of his bag. “Tomorrow, we send him a message with photos of the documents and an offer to meet. And believe me, he will agree.”
I looked at my brother with admiration. Grandpa would be proud of him, proud of both of us. We didn’t break, didn’t surrender. We acted exactly as he taught us: calmly, methodically, thinking through every step.
Marcus started firing up the stove. Soon it became warm in the cabin. I helped Olivia lie down on the bunks, covered her with a blanket, gave her painkillers.
“Sleep, honey,” I said, stroking her hair. “Tomorrow is a hard day.”
When she fell asleep, Marcus and I sat by the stove, looking at the fire through the cracks in the iron door.
“Do you understand what we’re doing?” I asked quietly. “We’re standing up against one of the most powerful families in the state. They have money, connections, power.”
“And we have the truth,” Marcus answered simply. “And determination.”
“That might not be enough.” I shook my head.
“And we have something else they don’t,” he added, throwing a log into the stove. “That ‘Black blood’ she spoke of so contemptuously.”
I smiled, remembering Grandma Zora—her pride, her resilience, her ability to survive where others gave up.
“You know, I think Grandpa didn’t marry a Black woman by accident,” Marcus said thoughtfully. “He, a soldier, a man of the system, chose a woman who had to live knowing the system wasn’t built for her, evading the hate, finding loopholes where others saw solid walls.”
“Do you think that blood really means something?” I asked.
“I think we are a product of both worlds,” he replied. “We have Grandpa’s methodical nature, his systemic approach, and Grandma’s intuition—her ability to think outside the box, to see what is hidden from others.”
The fire in the stove crackled, casting bizarre shadows on the walls of the cabin. We sat in silence, each immersed in our own thoughts. Ahead was the decisive day.
“We need to sleep,” Marcus finally said. “We’ll need all our strength tomorrow.”
I nodded and moved to the bunks where Olivia was sleeping; I didn’t want to leave her alone even for a minute.
“I’ll take the first watch,” Marcus said, taking out the pistol. He sat by the window, looking into the darkness of the forest. His profile, sharp and resolute, reminded me of Grandpa. The same straight nose, the same fold between the eyebrows.
I lay down next to my daughter, listening to her breathing. She slept restlessly, sometimes starting and moaning quietly. Everything will be fine, I promised her mentally. We will protect you and the baby, whatever the cost.
I was awakened by a quiet knock at the door. I jumped up, automatically grabbing the pistol that lay nearby. Marcus was already standing at the entrance, tense, ready for action.
“Who is it?” He asked quietly.
“Doc Wallace.” A calm male voice answered. “Marcus Vance called.”
My brother relaxed but didn’t put the pistol away. “Which regiment, Wallace?” he asked.
“82nd Airborne,” the voice answered immediately. “Operation Wolfpack.”
Marcus nodded and opened the door. On the threshold stood a stocky man of about fifty in a field jacket and with a battered medical bag in his hand. His gray hair was cut short, and his face was furrowed with wrinkles of a man who had seen a lot.
“Come in, Wallace.” Marcus shook his hand. “Thanks for coming.”
“For you? Anytime.”
The doctor entered and looked around the room. His gaze stopped on the sleeping Olivia. “This the patient?”
I nodded and went to my daughter, gently waking her. “Olivia, this is the doctor. He’s going to examine you.”
Doc Wallace was a man of few words and businesslike. He carefully examined all of Olivia’s wounds, checked her pupils, measured her blood pressure and pulse. Then he took a small portable ultrasound machine out of his bag.
“Army tech,” he explained, noticing my surprised look. “For field conditions. Not as precise as in a hospital, but we’ll show the basics.”
He gently ran the sensor over Olivia’s stomach, peering into the small screen. His face was focused, and I waited for the verdict with anxiety.
“Heartbeat is present,” he finally said. “Stable. The placenta hasn’t detached. You got lucky, young lady.”
Olivia started crying, quietly, with relief. I squeezed her hand.
“And what about the other injuries?” Asked Marcus.
“Wrist fracture, non-displaced. Wallace checked the splint I had applied. Good fixation. Concussion of moderate severity. Bruises, hematomas, abrasions. Two ribs broken, but lungs not punctured. Ideally needs hospitalization, but…” He looked around the cabin, understanding that was impossible.