Chapter 3 - The Gathering of the Wolves
The historic district of Savannah was silent on Saturday night, the live oaks along Abercorn Street dropping old, wet moss onto the brick pavements under a low, yellow fog that smelled of sulfur and salt marsh. I stood on the balcony of my rented townhouse, watching the occasional limousine move toward the riverfront where the pre-gala dinners were being held by the members of the city council.
My phone buzzed in my hand—a restricted number that didn't use the standard digital exchange.
"Elena," a heavy, rough voice said. It was Nelson. My brother. He sounded like he had already had three bourbons, his voice thick with that false, aggressive confidence he used when he was trying to pitch a bad real estate deal to our cousins. "I saw the regulatory notice from the port authority. Why is NextGen's operating license listed under a compliance review? Julian’s frantic. He’s spent the last four hours trying to reach his father's lawyers."
"It's just a routine audit, Nelson," I said, my voice smooth and light. "You know how the state is about the container clearance metrics after a management shift. They just want to ensure that the transition from my risk protocol to Julian's new team doesn't cause a delay at the main gate."
"Yeah, well, tell your friends at the bank to back off," Nelson grunted. "Julian’s family is setting up a major trust allocation for the kids on Sunday morning before the guests arrive. If the bank has a hold on his personal accounts, the trustees can't sign the property transfer. It looks bad, Elena. It makes it look like the Montgomery name doesn't carry the water anymore."
"The Montgomery name carries exactly what it’s worth, Nelson," I said. "How’s Khloe holding up? The heat down here can be difficult for someone in her condition."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, the only sound being the faint clatter of ice against glass from whatever bar he was sitting in. "She’s fine," he said, his tone turning cautious, the professional grifter instantly replacing the arrogant brother. "She’s a strong girl. She knows what’s expected of her. She’s going to give this town something it hasn't seen in fifty years—a real legacy."
"I'm sure she will," I said. "Make sure you’re there early on Sunday, Nelson. You’re the one who secured the port relations for Julian. You deserve to be in the front row when the family takes the stage."
"Oh, I’ll be there," he said. "I’m bringing the senior port director myself. We’re finalizing the western terminal lease before the champagne is poured."
I hung up without saying goodbye. I walked back into the room, where Marcus Choate was waiting with two binders of certified title transfers.
"The sheriff's deputies are briefed, Elena," Marcus said, setting his glasses on the table. "They’ll be at the outer gates of the Montgomery mansion at eleven o'clock. The guests are scheduled to arrive at eleven-thirty. We’ve timed the service of the eviction notice to coincide precisely with the arrival of the mayor’s vehicle."
"And the bank accounts?"
"The liquidation rivals we bought out this morning were more than happy to clear the ledger," Marcus said, pointing to a document labeled Final Asset Foreclosure - Montgomery Timber Co. "Julian’s personal guarantor line was tied to his ownership stakes in the family mansion on the Ogeechee River. Because he defaulted on the short-term tech loans at eight o'clock this morning, the title has already been transferred to our holding firm, Vance Risk Management LLC. As of this exact moment, Julian Montgomery is technically a trespasser in his own childhood home."
"He doesn't have a single line of credit left?"
"Not a dime," Marcus said. "He has the clothes on his back, the leased SUV in his driveway, and whatever cash he has in his wallet. His mother's private medical care line at the Isle of Hope facility was canceled at five-thirty this afternoon because the primary corporate account was flagged as an active fraud registry by the state examiners."
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I walked over to the mirror, looking at my reflection under the pale yellow light of the chandelier. I didn't look like a woman who had been discarded by her husband; I looked like a risk manager who had successfully executed a corporate restructuring. The losses had been isolated. The liability had been cut. All that remained was the final physical clearance of the facility.
"Let’s go to bed, Marcus," I said, my voice steady and quiet. "We have an early morning crossing to make."
