Chapter 8: The Digital Ledger
The kerosene lamp flickered as a sharp gust of wind rattled the cabin's wooden shutters. I sat hunched over the laptop for hours, scrolling through financial trails that wound through offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands and landed squarely in private endowments controlled by Dr. Sterling. Every file corroborated the chilling reality of why Cole had been targeted in the hospital bed. He wasn't just an injured patient; he was an investigative journalist who had gotten too close to the human experiments running out of the hospital's basement research wing.
Cole stirred on the cot, coughing softly before propping himself up on one elbow. The mastiff immediately lifted its head, whining in concern until Cole rested a heavy hand on the dog's broad skull.
"How much did you find?" Cole asked, his voice steadying despite his pale complexion.
"Enough to put Sterling away for the rest of his life," I said, turning the laptop screen toward him so he could see the glowing rows of evidence. "Bank transfers, patient consent forms with forged signatures, and internal emails discussing how to dispose of anyone who asked questions."
Miller walked over to the wood stove, tossing in a split log before standing up and wiping soot from his hands. "Having the files on a laptop in a cabin doesn't do us any good if we can't get them to federal authorities without being intercepted. Sterling has local law enforcement on his payroll. If we walk into a standard police precinct, we might as well hand ourselves over to his hit squad."
"Then we don't go to a local precinct," I said, my mind racing through the contacts I had maintained before my life became tied to St. Jude Memorial. "Marcus Cole. He's an investigative reporter for the state gazette. He ran a piece on medical oversight violations three years ago. He lives outside the jurisdiction of Clayton County."
May you like
Cole nodded slowly, his expression tightening with resolve. "Marcus is clean. If anyone can break this story wide open before Sterling scrubs the main servers, it's him."
Miller crossed his arms, staring at the flickering screen. "It's a fifty-mile drive through winding mountain roads. If they've tracked my cruiser using toll cameras or patrol transponders, they'll be waiting for us at the highway junction."
