My fingers flew across the keyboard, breaking the antiquated encryption. My breath caught in my throat.
It was a raw, unedited security audio file from Walter Reed Medical Center. Specifically, the VIP suite where I was fighting for my life on a ventilator.
I clicked play. The audio was scratchy, filled with the rhythmic, mechanical hiss of my own life support machine. Then, voices.
“You’re moving the routing numbers too fast, Grant.”
The voice froze the blood in my veins. It was my father. Warren.
“The feds are knocking, Dad,” Grant’s voice whined in response, panicked and high-pitched. “If they trace the Geneva payouts to my accounts, I’m looking at treason. I’ll get life.”
“I don’t care what you need,” Warren snapped back, his voice dripping with cold, calculated malice. “I didn’t build this family’s legacy to watch you throw it away because you got sloppy with international terrorists. Lauren is out of the picture. She’s braindead on that bed. The girl is a ghost. Transfer the routing protocols to her personal accounts.”
