Chapter 6 - THE AUDIT OF FRANK CARTER
By Thursday morning, the federal net around my family’s business interests had tightened to a chokehold.
Specialist Vance briefed me during our morning intelligence sync.
“General, the IRS criminal investigation division and federal prosecutors in Ohio have formally accepted our dossier on Frank Carter’s supply company. They executed search warrants on his warehouses at dawn. Investigators found three decades of falsified ledgers, ghost employees, and kickbacks paid to local zoning officials.”
“And my father?” I asked, sipping black coffee from my ceramic mug.
“Currently sitting in an interrogation room at the federal building in Columbus, trying to explain why he used corporate funds to buy Derek a brand-new BMW and fund your mother’s country club dues.”
I nodded slowly. My father had spent my entire childhood lecturing me about fiscal responsibility, ethics, and hard work. He had built his entire identity on being an honest, salt-of-the-earth businessman, looking down on anyone who didn't play by his rigid, self-righteous rules.
The hypocrisy was staggering, but entirely predictable. People who demand perfection from everyone else are usually hiding the biggest skeletons.
“General,” Colonel Thomas interrupted, stepping into my office with an encrypted satellite phone. “Line one. It’s the Secretary of Defense.”
I set my coffee mug down, squared my shoulders, and picked up the receiver. “General Carter, Mr. Secretary.”
“General,” the Secretary’s voice boomed through the secure line. “I’m looking at the fallout from your hometown financial sweep in Ohio. Quite a busy week you’re having.”
“Routine maintenance, Mr. Secretary. Ensuring domestic supply chains and local contractors remain compliant with federal integrity standards.”
The Secretary laughed, a rich, knowing sound. “Of course, General. Integrity. Naturally. Listen, the Joint Chiefs need you in Brussels by Sunday for the NATO strategic summit. We have sensitive intelligence regarding joint defense integration in the Baltic states, and Allied command specifically requested you chair the briefing.”
“Understood, sir. My transport will be ready.”
May you like
“Safe travels, General. And give ‘em hell.”
The line went dead. I placed the phone back on its cradle and looked out the reinforced glass window of my Pentagon office, watching the Potomac River gleam in the morning sun. Oak Creek, Ohio, felt a million miles away—not just in geographic distance, but in the sheer scale of reality.
