He hadn't been able to sleep since seeing the DOD warning screen. He was sitting at his computer, frantically trying to move his hidden illicit funds from an offshore Cayman account into a decentralized cryptocurrency wallet. He needed to hide his assets and figure out an exit strategy. He clicked refresh on his Cayman banking portal. The balance, which had read $412,000 just 10 minutes prior, suddenly flickered.
The numbers rolled downward like a slot machine until the screen read $0. Kessler gasped, slamming his hand against the desk. "No, no, no! " He frantically clicked through the transaction history. There was only one outgoing wire transfer executed just seconds ago, routing the money through a dozen shell companies before vanishing entirely. The memo line on the wire transfer read, "Restitution, one of two. " Kessler's phone vibrated on the desk, nearly making him jump out of his skin.
The caller ID was restricted. He answered it, his breathing shallow. "Hello? " There was no voice on the other end, just the distinct rhythmic clicking of a dial on a heavy floor safe being spun. Then a soft, familiar voice spoke. "You guys really should have checked my references, Tommy. " The line went dead.
The hunters were now the hunted, and the ghost of JSOC had just locked onto his targets. By 4:15 a.m., the Georgia rain was coming down in sheets, hammering against the windshield of Garrett Riggins's unmarked Dodge Charger. He was parked under the flickering amber glow of a broken street lamp behind an abandoned strip mall in Decatur. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. The passenger door wrenched open, and Thomas Kessler slid into the front seat, soaking wet and looking like a ghost.
He didn't bother saying hello. "My Cayman accounts are zeroed," Kessler said, his voice trembling, lacking all the cynical confidence he had displayed just hours earlier at the cigar lounge. "$412,000 evaporated, routed through 12 different decentralized exchanges in 3 seconds. He took it all, Garrett. " Riggins pulled the 5.56 mm bullet from his jacket pocket and slammed it onto the dashboard. "He broke into my house, Tommy. He bypassed a monitored ADT security system, walked past my bedroom, left this on the kitchen counter, and locked the door on his way out.
We didn't just rob the wrong guy. We robbed a phantom. I ran his name, Garrett. The Department of Defense blocked the query. Tier 1 clearance.
You know what that means? Kessler wiped the rain from his face, his eyes darting frantically around the dark parking lot. "He's Delta or DEVGRU or CIA special activities. It doesn't matter. He's a professional killer with the backing of the federal government, and we just stole a quarter million dollars from him. " Riggins gritted his teeth, his survival instinct warring with his greed.
He's one man. We have a whole task force. We have badges. We go to his shop right now, kick the door, plant a kilo of fentanyl in his desk, and arrest him. If he resists, we put him down.
He's a civilian now. He bleeds like anyone else. Kessler looked at Riggins as if he were completely insane. You think a guy who can wipe an offshore account and goes through your house without waking you up is going to let you just walk up to his shop with a bag of fake drugs? He's watching us right now, Garrett.
I guarantee it. Kessler was right. 2 miles away, sitting in the back of an unmarked, heavily armored black SUV, Edmund Hayes was staring at a bank of four illuminated monitors. He was wearing a tactical headset, sipping black coffee. On the top left screen, a red GPS dot blinked steadily over the Decatur strip mall.
Edmund had attached a magnetic GPS tracker to the undercarriage of Riggins's Charger while Riggins was inside stealing his money. Through the headset, Edmund could hear every word the two detectives were saying. Cole, Edmund's DOD contact, had bypassed their cell phone microphones, turning their own devices into hot mics. We need to move the stash. Kessler's voice crackled through Edmund's earpiece.
If he can find my offshore accounts, he can find the physical cash. We have over 3 million in cash and seized assets sitting in that climate-controlled storage unit off Route 85. If he gets to that, we're dead. The cartel guys we stole half that money from will kill us if we can't pay them their kickbacks. All right, Riggins replied, his voice heavy with panic.
We call Sergeant Miller. We get him to meet us at the storage facility. We load the cash into the vans, move it to the secondary safe house, and figure out how to handle Hayes tomorrow. In the SUV, Edmund allowed himself a grim fleeting smile. The trap was set.
They were doing exactly what he wanted. When you apply overwhelming inexplicable pressure to corrupt men, they don't fight back. They run to protect their largest pile of treasure. Cole, Edmund said quietly into his mic. They're moving to the primary cash.
Route 85 storage facility. Copy that, Commander, Cole's voice replied from Fort Liberty. I've got eyes in the sky. Repositioning a Keyhole satellite to provide overhead thermal. Are you green-lighting the secondary phase?
Green light, Edmund confirmed. Call the suits. Edmund put the SUV in drive. It was time to show them what a real raid looked like. Apex Secure Storage was a massive fortress-like facility on the industrial outskirts of Atlanta.
It was favored by wealthy clients for its anonymity and heavy security. Riggins, Kessler, and their corrupt superior, Sergeant Miller, arrived in two separate vehicles at 5:30 a.m. The rain had slowed to a miserable drizzle. They used a cloned key card to bypass the main gate and drove their vehicles directly up to unit 402, a double-wide garage with reinforced steel doors. Hurry up.
Get the vans backed up to the door, Miller barked. He was a balding, stocky man who was sweating profusely, furious that his early morning had been interrupted by a crisis. "If this guy is who you say he is, we grab the duffels and scatter. " Kessler punched the digital code into the keypad. The heavy steel door rolled upward with a loud mechanical grinding noise. Riggins drew his service weapon, sweeping the interior out of pure paranoia.