Blackwood

The Hunt for Vincent

George slept for four hours.

It wasn't enough. His body screamed for more rest, but his mind wouldn't shut off. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Vincent's face. The gun aimed at Christopher. The cold smile.

He woke on the couch in the safe house apartment, stiff and cold. Someone had put a blanket over him. Probably Sam. She always looked out for him, even when he didn't deserve it.

The apartment was quiet. Sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, casting pale stripes across the floor. Christopher was still asleep on the other couch, his small body curled into a tight ball. He looked younger than twelve when he slept. More vulnerable.

Elizabeth was in the kitchen, making coffee. The smell filled the small space—rich and dark and comforting.

George sat up slowly. His shoulder ached from where he'd hit the floor during the shooting at the farmhouse. His head pounded from lack of sleep and too much adrenaline.

"Morning," Elizabeth said. She handed him a cup of coffee. Black. Strong. The way he liked it. "You look terrible."

"I feel terrible." He wrapped his hands around the warm mug. The heat seeped into his fingers.

"You saved our lives last night."

"I did what anyone would have done."

"No." Elizabeth sat across from him on a wooden chair. Her face was serious. "You did what no one else could. Vincent has been threatening us for months. Arthur was playing his own games. Maya was caught in the middle. But you? You came back. You stayed. You fought."

George took a sip of coffee. It was good. Better than anything he could make himself. "I didn't come back for you. I came back because Arthur called."

"You came back because you're a good man, George. Even if you don't believe it."

He didn't know what to say to that. So he said nothing. He just drank his coffee and watched the sunlight move across the floor.

Sam walked in from the bedroom. She was wearing borrowed clothes—Elizabeth's, probably. A sweater that was too small and pants that were too short. Her hair was a mess. Her face was still pale from the ordeal in Chicago.

"Any news?" Sam asked.

George checked his phone. No messages. No calls. Nothing from Miller. Nothing from Vincent. Nothing from anyone.

"Nothing."

"That's not good."

"Or it means they're still hiding. Licking their wounds. Planning their next move."

Sam sat down heavily on the arm of the couch. "I've been thinking about the money. Vincent's money. Where it came from. Where it's going."

George leaned forward. This was why he'd brought Sam. She saw things he missed. "Tell me."

"Vincent wasn't just stealing from Blackwood Capital. I've been going through the transactions you found in your father's private study. The ones from the Cayman accounts. The shell companies. The layers of transfers." Sam's voice was tight with excitement. "He was laundering money for someone else. Someone outside the family."

"Who?"

"I don't know yet. The transactions are layered deeper than anything I've seen before. Shell companies within shell companies. Fake invoices. Phantom loans. It's designed to hide the origin of the money. But the origin point keeps coming back to the same place."

"Where?"

Sam pulled out her phone and showed George a screen. A bank statement. Cayman Islands. Account holder: a name he didn't recognize. "A bank in the Cayman Islands. But the account holder is a corporation registered in Delaware. And that corporation is owned by another corporation registered in Panama. And that one is owned by a trust in the Bahamas."

George stared at the screen. "A paper trail designed to hide someone."

"Exactly. Whoever Vincent is working with, they don't want to be found. They've spent years building this maze."

"Can you trace it further?"

"I can try. But it's going to take time. And access to records I don't have. We're talking about international banking laws, privacy protections, jurisdictions that don't cooperate with US investigators."

"Who does have that access?"

"The FBI. The Treasury Department. Someone with jurisdiction over international money laundering. Someone with subpoena power."

George looked at Elizabeth. "Do you know anyone in the FBI?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "No. But Eleanor might. She used to have connections. Before..."

"Before Dad locked her away."

"Yes." Elizabeth's voice was quiet. "Before all of this."

George stood up. His joints protested. "Then we need to ask her."

---

Eleanor was in the small bedroom at the back of the apartment.

She was sitting on the bed, looking out the window. The room was cramped—just a bed, a nightstand, a closet. But it was clean. Safe. A far cry from the prison she'd lived in for eight years.

Her hair was gray and thin. Her skin was pale from years without sunlight. But her eyes were clearer than George had seen in years. The medication was finally leaving her system. She was waking up.

"Mom," George said, knocking on the open door. "We need to talk."

Eleanor turned. "About what?"

"Vincent. He's laundering money for someone. Someone outside the family. We need to find out who."

Eleanor's face went still. Her hands, resting on her lap, stopped moving. "I think I know."

George sat on the bed next to her. The mattress was soft and worn. "Who?"

"Your father had a partner. Years ago. Before any of you were born. A man named Thomas Cade."

George knew the name. Every financial investigator in New England knew the name. "Thomas Cade? The private equity billionaire? He was forced out of Blackwood Capital in 2005."

"Yes. Because he was stealing. Julian found out and gave him a choice. Leave quietly or go to prison." Eleanor's voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "Thomas chose to leave. But he never forgot. And he never forgave."

"Do you think he's working with Vincent?"

"I think Vincent is desperate. And Thomas Cade has money. And power. And a reason to hate this family." Eleanor looked at George. Her eyes were wet. "If they've joined forces, we're in more danger than you realize."

"Tell me about Cade. What kind of man is he?"

"He's not like your father. Julian could be cruel, but he had lines he wouldn't cross. Thomas doesn't have lines. He's capable of anything." Eleanor's voice trembled. "I saw it in his eyes, years ago. At a company party. He was talking to someone about a competitor who'd had an accident. And he was smiling."

George's stomach tightened. "Including murder?"

"Including murder. Including kidnapping. Including burning down everything your father built." Eleanor grabbed George's hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "You have to be careful, George. Thomas Cade doesn't just ruin people. He erases them."

Sam spoke from the doorway. She'd been listening. "I've heard of Thomas Cade. He runs a private equity firm in Boston. Cade Capital. It's worth billions. Maybe tens of billions."

Eleanor nodded. "He built it with money he stole from Blackwood. Your father knew. But he couldn't prove it. And by the time he had enough evidence, Thomas was too powerful to touch."

George stood up. His mind was racing. "Then that's where we start. Boston. Cade Capital."

---

George called Detective Miller before they left the safe house.

Miller answered on the second ring. "Blackwood. What do you have?"

"Thomas Cade. He's connected to Vincent. We're sure of it."

"Cade." Miller's voice was heavy. "I know the name. He's been on our radar for years. But we've never been able to make anything stick. He's got lawyers. Politicians. Judges. He's untouchable."

"Not anymore. We have evidence. Financial records. Transaction histories. Links to Vincent's offshore accounts."

"Proof?"

"Not yet. But we're going to get it. We're heading to Boston."

Miller was quiet for a long moment. "Be careful, Blackwood. Cade isn't like your brothers. He's a different kind of animal. Your brothers are amateurs compared to him."

"I know."

"If you find something, call me. Don't try to handle it yourself. Don't go inside his building. Don't approach him. That's an order."

George hung up.

Sam was already packing her bag. "Boston is an hour from here. We can be there by noon."

"Elizabeth is coming with us," George said. "She knows Cade. She's seen him with Vincent."

Sam looked at Elizabeth. "Are you sure? It's dangerous."

"I've been hiding for months. Afraid. Alone." Elizabeth's voice was firm. "It's time I stopped. Christopher will stay here with Eleanor. They'll be safe."

George nodded. "Let's move."

---

The drive to Boston was quiet.

George drove. Sam navigated, her phone propped against the dashboard. Elizabeth sat in the back, staring out the window at the passing trees.

The highway cut through the Massachusetts countryside. Autumn colors. Red and gold and orange. Beautiful, in a sad way. Like everything was dying.

"Tell me about the first time you saw Cade," George said.

Elizabeth didn't answer for a moment. Then: "It was two years ago. Vincent brought him to a meeting. At a restaurant in Providence. They thought I wasn't paying attention. But I was. I was always paying attention."

"What did they talk about?"

"Money. Offshore accounts. A plan to bleed Blackwood Capital dry." Elizabeth's voice was cold. "Vincent was nervous. Kept looking over his shoulder. Cade was calm. Relaxed. Like he'd done it a hundred times before."

"Because he had," Sam said from the front seat. "Cade has been accused of money laundering, fraud, tax evasion, even human trafficking. Nothing ever sticks. He's like a ghost."

"Because he pays people off," George said.

"Or he kills them."

The car went quiet.

---

They crossed into Boston at 11:45 AM.

The city was busy. Traffic was heavy. Horns blared. Pedestrians darted between cars. The sky was gray with clouds, threatening rain.

George followed the GPS to Cade Capital's headquarters—a glass tower in the Financial District. Fifty stories. Black glass. Gold trim. A lobby that probably cost more than George's entire apartment building.

"We can't just walk in," Sam said. "They'll recognize us. Especially you, George. Your face has been all over the news."

"Then we don't walk in." George parked across the street, in a loading zone. He'd move if he had to. "We watch. We wait. We see who comes and goes."

They sat in the car for two hours.

Nothing.

The building's entrance was busy. Businessmen in suits. Women in heels. Delivery drivers. Tourists. But no one George recognized.

Then, at 2:00 PM, a black SUV pulled up to the building's private entrance—the one reserved for executives.

Vincent got out.

He was wearing a dark suit. Expensive. His hair was combed. He looked like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't threatened to kill a child less than twenty-four hours ago.

Evelyn Reid was with him. She was dressed in black. Professional. Her hair was pulled back. She looked like a detective again. But she wasn't. She was a traitor.

They walked inside.

George's hands tightened on the steering wheel. His knuckles went white. "There they are."

"What do we do?" Sam asked.

"We wait for them to come out."

"We could call Miller. Tell him they're here."

"And give them time to escape? The building has multiple exits. Private elevators. Parking garages. By the time Miller gets a team here, Vincent could be anywhere." George shook his head. "We watch. We follow. We find out where they're going."

Another hour passed.

Sam got restless. She scrolled through her phone, checking financial records. Elizabeth sat in silence, staring at the building.

At 3:15 PM, Vincent and Evelyn came out.

They got back in the SUV and drove.

George followed.

The SUV wound through Boston's crowded streets. Past the Common. Through the Back Bay. Over the river into Cambridge.

The neighborhood changed. From commercial to residential. From busy to quiet. Large houses. Old trees. Iron gates.

The SUV pulled into a long driveway at the end of a tree-lined street. A mansion sat at the end—old stone, three stories, tall chimneys. Hedges lined the property. A security camera was mounted above the gate.

Cade's house.

George parked down the street, behind a delivery truck. "This is it."

"Now what?" Elizabeth asked.

"Now we wait."

---

They waited until dark.

The sun went down slowly, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. Then the light faded. The streetlights came on. The mansion glowed from within—warm light spilling from the windows.

At 8:00 PM, a car pulled out of the driveway.

Not the black SUV. A different car. A silver Mercedes. Expensive. New.

"Someone's leaving," Sam said.

George watched the car pass. The driver was a woman. Middle-aged. Dark hair. Expensive coat.

"That's not Vincent," Elizabeth said from the back seat. "That's Cade's wife."

"What's her name?"

"Margaret. She's a lawyer. Handles Cade's legal work. She's probably the smartest person in that house."

George started the engine. "Then we follow her."

They followed the Mercedes through Cambridge and into downtown Boston. It parked outside a restaurant—an expensive place with valet parking and red velvet ropes. The kind of place where a meal cost more than some people made in a week.

Margaret Cade got out and walked inside. She moved like she owned the place. Which she probably did.

George parked across the street. "Sam, stay with the car. Keep the engine running. Elizabeth, come with me."

"Be careful," Sam said.

They walked to the restaurant. George flashed a wad of cash at the host—money he'd withdrawn from an ATM in Providence. "We need a table near Margaret Cade. Discreetly."

The host looked at the cash. Then at George. Then at Elizabeth. His eyes flickered with recognition—George's face had been on the news. But the cash was thick. He nodded.

"Follow me."

They were seated two tables away from Margaret. Close enough to see. Far enough not to be obvious.

Margaret was alone. Drinking wine. A glass of red, almost empty. She was waiting for someone.

Ten minutes later, a man walked in.

He was tall. Gray hair, perfectly styled. Expensive suit, dark blue. He moved with the confidence of someone who'd never been told no.

Not Vincent. Not Cade.

Someone George didn't recognize.

He sat down next to Margaret. Kissed her cheek. Not like a lover. Like a business partner. A greeting between equals.

Elizabeth leaned close to George. Her breath was warm against his ear. "That's David Cross. He's a lawyer. He's been representing Vincent in secret. Setting up shell companies. Moving money."

"Cross?" The name tugged at George's memory. He'd seen it somewhere. In the files? In the notes? "What's his connection to Cade?"

"I don't know. But if he's here, something big is happening. Something they don't want anyone to see."

George pulled out his phone and took a picture of Cross and Margaret. Then another. Then a third. He zoomed in on their faces. Their body language. They were talking quietly. Intensely.

Then he called Miller.

Miller answered on the first ring. "Blackwood. What do you have?"

"Thomas Cade's wife is meeting with Vincent's lawyer at a restaurant in Boston. A man named David Cross. They're talking about something. Something secret."

"Cross." Miller's voice was sharp. "I know that name. He's been linked to Cade for years. But we've never been able to prove anything."

"Now you have a picture."

"Don't approach them, Blackwood. That's an order. I'll send a team."

"They'll be gone by the time your team gets here. They're almost done. Look at their body language. They're wrapping up."

"Then follow them. But don't engage. Don't let them see you."

George hung up.

Elizabeth looked at him. "What did he say?"

"He said to follow them. So let's follow them."

---

Margaret and Cross left the restaurant at 9:30 PM.

They walked to the Mercedes together. Cross got in the passenger seat. Margaret drove.

George followed.

But instead of turning into the Cade mansion, the Mercedes kept going. Through Cambridge. Past Harvard. Into a part of the city George didn't know. Industrial. Warehouses. Empty lots.

The Mercedes stopped in front of a warehouse.

Not a fancy building. Not a corporate office. A real warehouse. Old brick. Graffiti on the walls. A single light above the door.

Margaret got out. Cross got out.

They looked around. Checking to see if anyone was watching.

Then they walked inside.

George parked a block away, behind an abandoned delivery truck. He killed the engine and the lights.

"This doesn't look like a legal office," Sam said from the back seat.

"It's not," Elizabeth said. "This is where Cade hides things. I've heard Vincent talk about it. Years ago. When he was drunk. He said Cade had a place where he kept records. Evidence. Things he didn't want anyone to find."

"What kind of things?"

"Everything. Bank records. Transaction histories. Photos. Recordings." Elizabeth's voice was low. "Cade is paranoid. He documents everything. And he keeps it all here. In case he needs leverage."

Sam leaned forward from the back seat. "If we can get inside, we can find proof. Proof that Cade and Vincent are working together. Proof that Vincent has been laundering money. Proof that Evelyn Reid is a traitor."

"It's too dangerous," George said.

"Everything about this is dangerous, George. We're hunting a billionaire with connections to half the politicians in New England. Sitting in a car outside his secret warehouse isn't safe either."

George looked at the warehouse. Dark windows. A single door. No security cameras he could see. But that didn't mean they weren't there.

"Elizabeth, stay with Sam. Keep the engine running. If I'm not back in thirty minutes, call Miller and tell him everything. Tell him where I went. Tell him what I was looking for."

"George—"

"Stay."

He got out of the car before she could argue.

The air was cold and damp. It smelled like the river—salt and decay. George walked quickly, keeping to the shadows.

The warehouse door was old. Wood. Rusted hinges. No lock.

He pushed it open.

Inside, the warehouse was huge. Open space. High ceilings. Filled with filing cabinets. Boxes. Computers. The air was thick with dust and the smell of old paper.

George walked slowly. His footsteps echoed on the concrete floor.

He found a room in the back. A small office. A desk. A laptop. Papers spread across the surface. A filing cabinet against the wall.

He sat down at the desk and started going through the papers.

Bank statements. Dozens of them. Cayman Islands. Switzerland. Bahamas. Accounts in names he didn't recognize.

Wire transfers. Millions of dollars. Moving between accounts. Flowing into shell companies. Then into Vincent's personal accounts.

Photographs. Vincent with Cade. Vincent with Evelyn. Vincent with men George didn't know.

Recordings. Audio files labeled with dates and names.

George pulled out his phone and started taking pictures. Document after document. Evidence.

Then he heard a noise behind him.

A footstep. Soft. Deliberate.

He turned.

David Cross was standing in the doorway.

Holding a gun.

"Mr. Blackwood," Cross said. His voice was calm. Almost friendly. "I was hoping you'd come. You've saved me the trouble of finding you."