Chapter 4 - The Past Daniel Buried
The Mills House Hotel was a pink-hued historical landmark nestled in the heart of the French Quarter, known for its wrought-iron balconies and quiet Southern elegance. When Daniel pulled the Ford into the circular drive, the night doorman rushed forward to open Claire’s door with practiced deference.
"Mr. Reed, Ms. Whitmore," the concierge greeted them warmly at the mahogany reception desk. "We have your reservations confirmed. Two executive suites on the fourth floor, adjoining through the private sitting corridor as requested."
They took the brass-caged elevator up in silence, the quiet ticking of the cables the only sound between them. When the doors slid open on the fourth floor, the carpeted hallway was dimly lit with soft amber sconces.
Daniel walked Claire to the door of Suite 402. He took the brass keycard from her hand, slid it through the lock until the green light flashed, and pushed the heavy wooden door open. He stepped inside first, quickly scanning the living area, the balcony terrace, and the open bathroom door with practiced efficiency.
Claire watched him from the threshold, a faint, bittersweet smile touching her lips. "Old habits die hard, don't they?"
"Safe and secure," Daniel said, stepping back out into the corridor and handing the key back to her. "Lock the deadbolt and the latch from the inside. I'm right next door in 404. If you hear anything, or if you need anything at all, just knock on the adjoining door."
Claire held the keycard tightly. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something more, her eyes searching his face in the soft hallway light.
"Daniel," she whispered. "Thank you. For today. For standing up to Julian. Nobody has stood between me and a problem like that since my father died."
"Get some sleep, Claire," he said gently. "You've got a long weekend ahead of you."
He watched her close the heavy door and listened for the definitive click of the deadbolt before turning around and entering his own suite.
Daniel stripped off the rented tuxedo jacket, hung it over the back of an armchair, and tossed his cufflinks onto the glass nightstand. He loosened his black bow tie, unbuttoned the top three buttons of his white dress shirt, and walked over to the French doors leading to the private balcony.
He stepped outside into the warm, humid South Carolina night. Below him, the cobblestone streets of Church Street were largely deserted, save for a stray horse-drawn carriage heading back toward the stables.
His cell phone vibrated on the bedside table.
Daniel walked back inside and picked it up. The caller ID displayed an unlisted nine-digit number. He frowned. Only four people in the entire world had this specific direct line—men he had served with in the 75th Ranger Regiment and later within joint task force operations in northern Syria.
He swiped the screen and brought the phone to his ear. "Reed."
"Daniel," a deep, gravelly voice answered instantly. It was Marcus Vance—no relation to Julian, but a former intelligence officer who now ran private corporate risk assessments out of Washington. "I saw your name flag on a travel manifest into Charleston yesterday. Tell me you aren't involved with Whitmore Properties."
Daniel’s posture stiffened immediately. "I am Whitmore's senior operations director. Why?"
Marcus sighed heavily over the encrypted connection. "We've been tracking an offshore venture syndicate based out of the Cayman Islands for six months. They've been buying up distressed industrial bonds along the Atlantic seaboard. The shell company is fronted by Julian Vance and his father's shipping conglomerate. But here’s the kicker, Daniel: they aren't just trying to acquire Whitmore Properties for market share."
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"What do they want, Marcus?"
"Whitmore owns forty acres of undeveloped deep-water shipping terminals along the Cooper River," Marcus said, his voice deadly serious. "Julian sold options on those terminals to a sanctioned foreign maritime cartel three weeks ago for two hundred million dollars. But he doesn't own the deed. Claire Whitmore does. If she doesn't sign those parcels over before the fiscal quarter closes on Monday, Julian’s family defaults on their foreign debt. Those cartel guys don't file lawsuits, Daniel. They collect collateral in blood."
