Ashes of a Good Man

Chapter 4 - War within

Atlanta had a habit of mirroring Malik’s moods. The clouds hung low over the skyline as he sat alone in his suite, laptop open, numbers cascading down the screen like confessions.

Phoenix Freight’s analysts had sent over Moore Logistics’ full fiscal reports. On paper, the company was struggling, but not dying. Someone was feeding it life support. Quietly.

He zoomed in on a set of ledgers from three years back. The numbers didn’t add up. Two accounts kept reappearing: Wilcrest Holdings and Savoy Finance Group, both offshore, both masked through shell companies.

Elena stepped in, coffee in hand. “You’ve been staring at those numbers all morning.”

“They’re lying,” he said.

“Numbers don’t lie, Malik. People do.”

He looked up. “Exactly.”

She set the coffee down and leaned over the desk. “You think Derrick’s been laundering money?”

“Not just laundering,” Malik murmured. “Covering for someone. Look here, every time their profits dipped, a private deposit refilled their accounts. Always from the same two firms.”

“Wilcrest and Savoy,” she said, squinting. “You know them?”

Malik nodded slowly. “Savoy was the name on the fake contract that ruined me. I thought it was Derrick’s front. But he didn’t have the brains to set that up alone.”

Elena’s eyes widened. “Then who did?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

Later that afternoon, Malik met with Raymond Willis in a small café off Peachtree. Willis had aged, but the same fire lived in his eyes.

“You sure you wanna keep digging?” Willis asked. “You already beat them in every way that counts.”

“I didn’t beat them,” Malik said. “I just scared them. Whoever was behind that scam is still eating off my bones.”

Willis stirred his coffee. “You think it goes higher?”

“I think Derrick was a pawn,” Malik said quietly. “And someone at Moore Logistics played both of us.”

Willis leaned closer. “You ever hear the name Jonas Kent?”

Malik frowned. “No.”

“Big investor. Silent partner in Moore Logistics about six years back. Used to run a finance outfit out of New York. Shady as they come.”

Malik tapped his fingers against the table. “Savoy Finance is registered in Delaware. Same year Kent left New York.”

Willis nodded. “He’s your man.”

Malik stood. “Then he’s going to tell me why he ruined my life.”

Night fell thick and restless. Malik returned to the suite, mind racing. Elena watched him pace. “You found something,” she said.

“I found the man behind the curtain,” Malik replied. “Jonas Kent. He bankrolled the Moores’ expansion, including the scam that gutted my business.”

She folded her arms. “And now?”

“Now,” he said, pulling his jacket on, “I go shake his tree.”

“Where?”

Malik looked at her. “A man like Kent doesn’t hide in the dark. He hides in the open.”

He grabbed his phone and dialed a contact from an old network of logistics brokers. “Get me everything on Jonas Kent, companies, locations, meetings. I want his calendar by morning.”

When he hung up, Elena was staring at him. “You’re chasing a ghost, Malik. You sure you’re ready to face what you find?”

He met her gaze. “I stopped fearing ghosts when I became one.”

Outside, thunder rolled again, low and deliberate. Downtown, in a private penthouse suite overlooking the city, Derrick Moore poured himself a drink and scrolled through his phone.

His messages were full of numbers that didn’t make sense, wire transfers, declining clients, invoices marked “pending.”

Across the room, Jonas Kent, silver-haired, calm, predator eyes, watched him. “You’re slipping, Derrick.”

Derrick set the glass down. “We’re fine.”

“You’re not,” Kent said. “Phoenix Freight is undercutting you in every market, and now you’re asking me for more cash. You told me you buried that mechanic years ago.”

Derrick stiffened. “We did.”

Kent stepped closer. “Then why does he keep resurfacing in your nightmares?”

Derrick swallowed. “You think”

“I think,” Kent interrupted, “that you underestimated him. And I don’t pay for ghosts.”

He turned toward the window. “Find out who Alexander Reed really is. Because if you brought that man back from the dead…”

He looked over his shoulder, eyes cold. “…you’ll wish you’d stayed buried with him.”

Rain misted against the tall windows of the hotel lobby as Malik waited for his contact. He wasn’t used to waiting anymore, but information took time, and patience was one skill the old Malik had never mastered.

A man in a trench coat slid onto the seat across from him. “You still attract storms,” the man said.

Malik smiled faintly. “And you still talk in riddles.”

“Good to see you, Carter.”

“Name’s Reed now,” Malik replied. “You got what I asked for?”

The man set a drive on the table. “Kent keeps everything clean. Offshore accounts, ghost executives, private holding companies. But there’s one thread he didn’t cut, Wilcrest Holdings. It’s run out of a private server farm right here in Atlanta.”

“Location?”

“Underground data center near Northside Drive. Security’s tight. But someone inside is leaking information.”

Malik pocketed the drive. “Who?”

The man hesitated. “A name came up, someone using the handle GeminA. Could be a hacker, could be a whistle-blower. Hard to say.”

Malik stood. “Find her.”

“She already found you,” the man said quietly. “She’s the one who sent you the anonymous text last week.”

Malik’s jaw tightened. “Then she knows too much.”

Back upstairs, Elena watched him load the data onto his laptop. “You’re playing spy now?”

“I’m finding truth,” he said. “Same thing, different stakes.”

The screen filled with coded transfers, strings of numbers, fake vendors. Malik’s fingers moved quickly, tracing patterns.

A payment chain snaked from Wilcrest Holdings straight to a Moore Logistics account, and then to Savoy Finance, ending in an entity labeled K-Consulting. He froze. “K-Consulting,” he murmured. “Kent’s initials.”

Elena leaned closer. “He’s funding them again?”

“Not funding,” Malik whispered. “Owning. He used me to build their expansion. Then he used them to hide his laundering.”

“And now?”

“Now he’s hiding behind another name.”

Elena’s phone buzzed. A message from an unknown sender lit her screen: You’re in danger. Stop digging. — GeminA

She looked up. “Someone’s watching us.”

Malik’s expression didn’t change. “Good. That means I’m close.”

He closed the laptop and stood, his reflection caught in the dark glass of the window, steady, sharp, unyielding. “Pack up,” he said. “We move at dawn.”

The streets were slick with last night’s rain when Malik left the hotel before sunrise. Atlanta was still half-asleep, delivery trucks humming, streetlights blinking against the dawn.

He moved quietly, hood up, eyes sharp. The coordinates from the data drive led him to an aging office park on Northside Drive.

Most of the units were dark, except for one narrow building with a faint blue glow bleeding through its blinds. Wilcrest Holdings, the rusted sign read. He stepped inside.

Rows of humming servers lined the small space. A single desk light burned at the far end. Behind it, a young woman in a grey hoodie tapped at two keyboards at once. “GeminA?” he asked.

She didn’t look up. “You’re early, Mr. Reed.”

“You know who I am.”

“I know who you used to be.” She turned then, sharp-eyed, calm. “Malik Carter. Mechanic turned mogul. You’ve made a lot of noise for a man who was supposed to disappear.”

He took a step closer. “Then you know why I’m here.”

“You want Kent.”

“I want the truth.”

She leaned back. “Same thing, but the truth bites harder. Kent isn’t just laundering through Moore Logistics, he’s using it as a front for international shipments. Real cargo mixed with ghost manifests. He needs the Moores because they still have domestic clearance.”

Malik frowned. “And Derrick doesn’t know?”

She shook her head. “He’s too busy cashing checks.”

A low hum filled the room as one of the servers rebooted. GeminA typed quickly, opened a window of scrolling data. “He’s already moving money out. Kent’s clearing house. Someone warned him you’re looking.”

Malik’s phone buzzed, unknown number again. A text: You’re good, Mr. Reed. But not fast enough.

He showed her the screen. “He’s watching us?”

She nodded. “Always.”

Another message appeared instantly: Leave Atlanta tonight. Or watch the rest of it burn.

Malik stared at the words until the glow from the screen blurred into the room’s cold light. “He wants me gone.”

“Then he’s scared,” GeminA said.

“Or confident,” Malik replied. “A man like Kent doesn’t warn, he marks.”

He pocketed the phone. “Send me everything you have, encrypted. If I go down, I want him dragged with me.”

She hesitated. “You’re declaring war.”

“I already lost one,” he said. “This time I’m writing the rules.”

He turned toward the door. The rain had started again, light but steady, like the city itself was listening. As he stepped outside, a black sedan rolled slowly past the gate, windows tinted too dark to see through.

It didn’t stop, but Malik felt the eyes on him. He pulled his hood higher and whispered to himself, “Your move, Kent.”