Chapter 7
The man’s voice broke the heavy spell that had held the ballroom captive. A low murmur rippled through the tables as guests began whispering among themselves, pulling out their smartphones to record the surreal exchange unfolding on the stage. Vance didn't answer the guest. He couldn't. His attention was entirely locked on Elena, who had turned her head to look out at the audience, her expression a mix of sorrow and quiet resolve.
“They deserve to know where their donations actually go, Thomas,” Elena said quietly, gesturing toward the projection screen behind them.
The documents on display had shifted again, revealing bank statements and wire transfer records linking the missing supply funds from FOB Delta to a private shell corporation registered under the name of a retired general who sat on the board of directors for the very foundation hosting tonight’s gala. Vance felt a cold chill wash over him. He had suspected irregularities over the years, but seeing the concrete financial trail laid bare in public was entirely different. It was a smoking gun that connected his past silence directly to ongoing corruption within the military-industrial complex.
“Turn that off,” Vance muttered, stepping past Elena toward the console beneath the screen, though he knew it was already too late.
“It’s already being broadcast,” Elena said softly, holding up her own smartphone, which displayed a live streaming interface with thousands of active viewers tuning in from across the country. Someone in the front row had started recording the moment the static began, and the digital algorithm had already picked up the classified document headers displayed on the overhead projector.
The foundation director, a stout man with gray hair named Robert Sterling, abruptly stood up from the head table near the stage, his face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and rising fury. “This is an outrage!” Sterling shouted, pointing a shaking finger at Elena. “Security! Remove this woman from the premises immediately! She’s mentally unstable and disrupting a private charity event!”
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Two burly event security guards in dark suits hurried down the side aisle, pushing past the startled guests as they approached the base of the stage stairs. Vance saw them coming and experienced a sudden, protective instinct that superseded his confusion and guilt. These men didn't understand the history, the documents, or the ghosts haunting the room. They only saw a trespasser disrupting a wealthy gala.
“Stay back!” Vance barked, stepping to the edge of the stage and raising a hand toward the approaching guards. The sheer authority in his voice—honed by decades of commanding troops in high-stress environments—made both security guards halt instantly at the foot of the stairs, looking up at him with hesitation.
