Chapter 4 - The Ghost TrainMidnight settled over the Rhode Island coast with a dense, choking fog that swallowed the moonlight and muffled the sound of the crashing waves.
Inside the Carbone safehouse, Jillian sat by the small wooden kitchen table, staring at the screen of a secure encrypted laptop Emmett had provided. On the screen was a digital copy of the thumb drive contents: thousands of pages of encrypted financial transactions, offshore shell corporation registries, and audio transcripts of meetings between Bannon associates and corrupt federal officials.
"It's all here," Jillian whispered, scrolling through a folder marked Project Vanguard. "Every dollar they laundered through the marine terminals. Every bribe paid to the port authority."
Emmett poured two cups of black coffee, setting one in front of her. "Shawn was meticulous. He knew the risks he was taking when he started collecting this evidence. He told me once—before the war between our families escalated—that he wanted out. He wanted to take his wife and child and move to the Pacific Northwest to teach art."
"Why didn't he?" Jillian asked softly.
"Because once you're inside the Bannon machine, the only way out is horizontal," Emmett said bitterly. "Just like he ended up."
The front door chimed softly—a silent electronic alert connected to the perimeter laser tripwires.
Frank materialized from the hallway, his hand resting casually inside his jacket where a suppressed pistol hung in a shoulder holster. "Boss. We've got movement on the access road. Two unmarked sedans. No lights. They bypassed the outer gate sensors."
Emmett didn't panic. He looked at Jillian. "They found us faster than I anticipated. Malcolm is slipping his best hounds off the leash."
"How did they track us?" Jillian asked, panic gripping her throat.
"Cell tower triangulation," Dr. Aris said calmly from the corner where he was packing his medical bag. "Even with encrypted phones, proximity towers register handshakes when switching networks. They narrowed our location down to this peninsula within an hour."
"We have to move," Frank urged, looking at Emmett. "If they pin us against the cliffside, we won't have an exit."
"No," Emmett said quietly. "We aren't running. We're going to set a trap."
Jillian stared at him in disbelief. "A trap? Emmett, there are armed men outside!"
"They want the drive, and they want you," Emmett said, his eyes hardening into steel. "If we run, they will hunt us across three states until they corner us. But if we let them come to us—right into this house—we can record their forced entry, their threats, and their weapons on the safehouse security feeds. We stream it directly to the U.S. Attorney’s secure server in Boston."
Jillian’s breath caught. "A honeytrap."
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"Exactly. Frank, lock down the smart-home protocols. Cut the exterior lights. Make it look like an abandoned summer cottage. When they breach the front door, let them in. Let Malcolm's men make their move on camera."
Frank grinned grimly, pulling a tablet from his belt. "With pleasure."
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