Dominic Sterling, Managing General Partner.
Dominic Sterling.
The silver-haired titan of Wall Street private equity who sat on the Board of Governors of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. The man who had attended my father’s funeral, kissed my cheek, and told me that Richard Alden was the finest aviator he had ever known.
"Dominic was Camden's partner," I whispered, the betrayal hitting me like a physical blow to the chest. "Dominic was bankrolling the offshore clinic. He used Camden to manufacture a default on my family's mortgage so he could absorb our terminal into his private logistics empire."
Arthur Vance closed his eyes for a second, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Dominic Sterling controls sixty percent of the commercial fuel distribution contracts at Teterboro, JFK, and Newark, Vivian," Arthur said softly. "He doesn't just have lawyers. He has the political power to shut our fuel valves off with a single phone call."
Before I could reply, my private phone chimed with an incoming text from an unlisted number.
It was a photograph.
My mother-in-law, Beatrice Pierce, was sitting on a plush velvet sofa in what looked like the penthouse library of the Harvard Club in Manhattan.
Beside her, holding a crystal tumbler of scotch and smiling with predatory warmth, sat Dominic Sterling.
The caption beneath the photo read:
Some families understand the value of a legacy, Vivian. Expect our process servers at Atlantic City before your ghost plane can refuel.
Chapter 12
The drive south along the Garden State Parkway was a blur of black asphalt, salt mist, and driving rain.
It was 2:45 AM when our three-car security convoy pulled through the perimeter gates of Atlantic City International Airport. The airfield was deserted, the long concrete runways glistening under the amber high-intensity lamps.
Out on the remote apron, positioned between two private maintenance hangars, sat tail number N842AM.
The Global 6000’s twin turbofans had finally spooled down, their heat shimmer still wavering in the freezing drizzle. Parked thirty feet from the boarding stairs was a federal biohazard containment van, flanked by four dark blue sedans bearing the gold seals of the Food and Drug Administration.
Special Agent David Miller was standing under an umbrella on the tarmac, speaking with Tyler Hayes and Captain Vance.
When my car stopped, I stepped out into the biting wind, wrapping my coat tightly around my neck. Arthur Vance and Marcus Hayes followed close behind.
Tyler saw his older brother and broke into a run, throwing his arms around Marcus's neck on the wet asphalt, sobbing openly into his brother's shoulder.
"I didn't know, Marc," Tyler cried, his voice trembling in the freezing rain. "I swear to God, I thought it was medical supplies for the cancer ward."
"I know, kid," Marcus murmured, patting his brother's back with a steady, protective hand. "Mrs. Pierce handled it. You’re safe."
I walked up to Agent Miller, who looked up from his clipboard.
"Mrs. Pierce," Agent Miller said, offering a curt nod of professional respect. "Your flight crew executed a flawless divert. My technicians just completed the preliminary inspection of the three crates in the rear hold."
"What did you find, Agent Miller?"
"Exactly what was listed on Camden's encrypted manifest," Miller replied grimly. "Forty-eight vials of uncertified viral gene-delivery vectors, manufactured in an unsanctioned laboratory in Exuma. But there was something else inside the second container."
Miller gestured toward a steel folding table set up beneath the wing of the aircraft.
Resting on the metal surface was a heavy waterproof pelican case, its latches popped open under an evidence tag.
Inside lay three thick, leather-bound corporate registers stamped with the seal of the Registrar General of the Commonwealth of the Bahamas.
"Helios Therapeutics corporate minute books," Miller said. "Recovered from the personal cargo hold. They aren't in Camden Pierce’s name."
I leaned over the case, the rain dripping from the brim of my hat onto the leather covers.
I opened the first volume.
The primary shareholder holding sixty-five percent of the voting equity in Helios was an entity called The Sterling Foundation for Advanced Medical Research.
Beneficial owner: Dominic Sterling.
"Camden wasn't the mastermind, Mrs. Pierce," Agent Miller said, shining his tactical flashlight on the certificate of incorporation. "Camden was the operational courier. Dominic Sterling was using your husband to smuggle unregulated longevity treatments into the country to treat ultra-high-net-worth private investors off the books."
"Investors who couldn't afford to wait for FDA clinical trials," Arthur Vance observed, his eyes narrowing.
"And who were willing to pay millions in cash to bypass federal protocols," Miller confirmed. "This evidence is sufficient to secure a federal grand jury subpoena for Dominic Sterling's personal communications by dawn."
"A subpoena won't stop him from foreclosing on my terminal at nine o'clock this morning, Agent Miller," I said, my voice cutting through the wind.
A sudden, sharp screech of tires echoed across the tarmac.
From the airport service road, a white commercial fuel truck bearing the corporate logo of Atlantic Aviation Fueling Services pulled up to the security barricade, stopped, and cut its engine.
The driver stepped out, holding a yellow clipboard, and walked directly toward our aircraft.
"Who authorized that fuel truck?" I asked, turning to the Atlantic City ground manager who had accompanied our security detail.
"I called for a standard top-off, Mrs. Pierce," the manager stammered, pulling out his radio. "Your crew needs to reposition this bird to Teterboro before the morning commuter rush."