Page 109 of Freeing Lark

“It was on everything,” Lark continued. “Invitations. Foundation paperwork. Event programs. Corporate presentations.” Her mouth twisted. “Bradley, my ex, even had cufflinks with it. His father was very big on making sure everyone knew who the Whitmore heir was.”

Hoot’s gut tightened. Haley’s fingers paused above her keyboard. “Shit. She’s right.” Then her fingers were flying across the keyboard again. “SIBYL is pulling Whitmore Global Holdings’ corporate records, shipping history, subsidiaries, financial connections—everything I can get.”

“SIBYL” was Haley’s baby, an intelligence-analysis program she’d built to sift through mountains of information and find connections a human analyst might miss. If there was a thread tying the Whitmores to those shipments, Hoot had a feeling SIBYL would find it.

Flint leaned toward the camera. “Let’s see what it finds.”

Data began filling Haley’s screens. She stared at it for several seconds. Then her expression changed. “Well, that’s interesting.”

Hoot’s shoulders tightened. He’d learned to hate those words coming from Haley. “What?”

“Whitmore Global Holdings isn’t just listed on this manifest.” She brought up another document. The same globe-and-W logo stared back at them. Then two more. “Three shipments,” Haley said. “All connected to Whitmore Global Holdings. And all three have discrepancies in their manifests.”

Hoot leaned closer. “Cargo?”

“Declared as industrial equipment.”

Baker’s voice came through the speakers. “But the shipping weights don’t match the declared cargo.”

Nobody spoke. Hoot looked at Lark. She’d gone pale. “Those crates had been right there,” she whispered.

Hoot reached beneath the table and found her hand. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

For several seconds, no one spoke. Then Baker’s voice cut through the silence. “Wait.” Hoot looked toward the screen. Baker was already typing rapidly. “I’ve got something.”

Haley leaned toward her monitors. “What?”

“I ran Whitmore Global Holdings through the data we recovered from the vault.”

Hoot’s pulse kicked. “And?”

Baker brought up another set of records. “There’s a connection to Calloway.”

Flint’s expression hardened. “How direct?”

“Direct enough.” Baker highlighted several transactions. “Calloway, through PSG, served as an outside executive consultant for Whitmore Global Holdings on several international security and logistics contracts.”

Hoot stared at the screen. “Security and logistics?”

“That’s the official description,” Baker said. “But there’s more.”

Haley’s fingers flew across her keyboard. “SIBYL just found it.” Another window appeared. A series of shell companies connected the Whitmore shipments to an offshore holding group. That group had appeared in several of the same records associated with PSG.

Hoot’s jaw clenched. Haley pointed at the screen. “One of Whitmore Global Holdings’ subsidiaries has paid a series of consulting fees to companies controlled by PSG.”

Flint leaned back slowly. “That’s our connection.”

Baker nodded. “Calloway sits right in the middle of it.”

“Which explains his presence at the Whitmore Foundation Gala,” mused Hoot staring at the web of names and companies. The pieces he’d been chasing for years suddenly shifted into a pattern he didn’t like.

The PSG symbol had led them to the crates. The numbers had led them to the manifests. The manifests had led them to a shipping network moving suspicious cargo through American waterways.

And now that network had led them straight to Whitmore Global Holdings. Straight to Lark’s family.

His eyes flicked to her. The family she’d spent years trying to escape. The family whose son had been standing beside Grant Calloway at the gala.

And Calloway—the man Hoot had never been able to shake the feeling was hiding something—was tied to it all.