Chapter 3 - The Fortress
I didn't take Abigail back to a civilian house. I didn't take her to a hotel. I drove her straight through the heavily guarded gates of Fort Liberty.
By the next morning, Abigail was resting in a secure military hospital suite, guarded by Military Police. The Fergusons couldn't reach her, couldn't intimidate her, and couldn't bribe the people protecting her. For the first time in months, my daughter slept without waking up screaming.
But outside the gates, the war had already begun.
Patricia Ferguson was a woman who fought dirty. By 10:00 AM, my phone was flooded with Google Alerts. The Fergusons had unleashed a massive public relations smear campaign. Tabloid articles appeared online claiming Abigail was a "troubled, unstable wife" who suffered from severe substance abuse, and that I was an "overbearing military mother" trying to extort the wealthy Ferguson family.
They thought public humiliation would break me. They thought I would quietly beg for a settlement to protect my daughter's name.
They were wrong.
I sat at a steel desk in my commanding officer's borrowed office, looking over the intel I had gathered. In the military, when an enemy outguns you, you don't fight them head-on. You cut their supply lines.
I picked up my secure phone and dialed a number I hadn't called since my deployment in Afghanistan. It belonged to Marcus Vance, a former military intelligence analyst who now ran one of the most ruthless forensic accounting firms in Washington, D.C.
"Rachel," Marcus answered, his voice a low rumble. "I saw the news. Tell me who we're hunting."
"The Ferguson family. Charlotte real estate," I said, staring at a photo of Nicholas smirking in a magazine. "Patricia says they have the courts and the media in their pockets. I want to know how they afford those pockets. I want their offshore accounts, their tax records, and their corporate shell companies. Dig up every body they've ever buried."
"Consider it done, Colonel. Give me forty-eight hours."
While Marcus worked, I focused on Abigail. I sat by her bed, holding her bruised hand, brushing the hair from her face. She looked at me with her good eye, tears welling up.
"Mom... what if they win?" she whispered. "Nicholas told me nobody would ever believe me. He said he owns the world."
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"He owns a very small pond, baby," I said fiercely, kissing her forehead. "And I am draining the water."
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