Chapter 17 - The Shadow of LondonTo fight a ghost, you have to drag them into the light.
For forty-eight hours, our law firm transformed into a militarized bunker. We severed external communications, operating entirely on isolated, analog frequencies. Jack’s intelligence operatives scoured global financial registries, while I personally audited every offshore shell company tied to the remnants of the Vanguard Coalition.
By midnight on Thursday, Jack walked into the glass-walled conference room, tossing a decrypted tablet onto the table.
"I found him," Jack announced, pouring two glasses of black coffee. "His name is Alistair Sterling. British aristocracy mixed with unregulated dark money. He operates a private equity firm in London that acts as a front for international arms dealing. He was the primary financier for Victor Thorne."
I stared at the dossier on the screen. Alistair Sterling had cold, aristocratic features and eyes that looked like shattered glass.
"He’s not hiding, Jack," I noted, my mind operating with cold, surgical precision. "He just filed a massive civil suit in international court against our firm. He’s claiming that our hostile takeover of Thorne’s assets was a violation of global trade laws."
"It’s a distraction," Jack growled, leaning over the table. "He knows he can't win in a legitimate court. He’s tying up our legal team so he can move his physical operatives into Boston. He wants to execute a hit on the estate while we are buried in paperwork."
"Then we don't play defense," I said softly, a dark, terrifying smile curving my lips.
Jack looked at me, a mixture of profound awe and lethal anticipation in his eyes. "What’s the play, counselor?"
"Alistair thinks we are going to cower behind our legal shields," I whispered. "He thinks we are afraid of his money. We need to remind him that we don't just win lawsuits, Jack. We destroy empires. I am going to London."
"You aren't going alone," Jack stated, tapping the side of his holster.
"I wouldn't dream of it," I replied.
The next evening, our private Gulfstream touched down in London under the cover of a freezing, torrential downpour. We didn't book a hotel. We operated out of a mobile, highly encrypted command center hidden in a surveillance van near the Thames.
Alistair Sterling was hosting an ultra-exclusive charity gala at the Victoria and Albert Museum that night. It was a closed-door event for the British political elite, designed to mask his illicit operations behind a veneer of high-society philanthropy.
"The perimeter is tight," Jack murmured, adjusting his earpiece. He looked devastating in a tailored black tuxedo. "Private mercenaries on every door. Biometric scanners. He’s terrified of you, Claire."
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"He should be," I said, slipping into a sweeping, backless gown of blood-red silk. I clasped a diamond choker around my neck, checking my reflection in the tinted glass. I looked radiant, absolute, and undeniably lethal.
"Let’s go crash a party," Jack smiled.
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