Chapter 13 - Operation Boston Bound-13-
Within two hours of discovering the existence of Claire Whitaker, District Attorney Sterling and I had mobilized a secure federal transport team bound for Boston, Massachusetts.
We couldn't take commercial flights. With Eleanor Whitaker’s network of corporate loyalists still capable of tracking standard passenger manifests, we boarded a federal transport helicopter stationed at a private airfield in New Jersey, lifting off into the gray afternoon sky just as the snow began to gently dust the Manhattan skyscrapers below.
Mara and the boys sat in the rear cabin, strapped securely into their seats. The boys were fascinated by the headset intercoms, chattering away to each other like a flock of young birds, while Mara sat quietly beside me, her hand resting over mine, her green eyes fixed on the horizon as the city faded away beneath the clouds.
"Are you okay?" I asked, leaning closer to her ear over the roar of the twin turbine engines.
"I'm just trying to process how deep the rot goes," Mara said softly, turning to look at me. "Every time we think we've reached the bottom of your family's secrets, another door opens into an even darker room."
"This is the last door," I promised her, squeezing her hand. "We find Claire, we bring her under federal protection, and we make sure she knows she isn't alone. Then, and only then, can we finally put the ghosts of the Whitaker name to rest."
"And your mother?"
"She's facing four consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole," I replied coldly. "Her lawyers tried to file for a medical furlough this morning, claiming she’s suffering from acute psychological stress. The federal judge denied it before they even finished filing the paperwork. She’s locked in solitary confinement at the federal detention center, where she can spend the rest of her days contemplating an empire built on ash."
Forty-five minutes later, the helicopter touched down on a secured concrete pad near the Harvard campus in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
A pair of unmarked federal vehicles were waiting on the tarmac to escort us directly to Claire Whitaker’s last known address—a modest, brick-faced apartment building located on a quiet residential street a few blocks away from the Charles River.
As our vehicle pulled up to the curb, I looked out the window. The lights were on in apartment 3B, casting a warm, orange glow through the sheer curtains.
"Stay here with the boys, Mara," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. "Let me go up alone. I don't want to frighten her."
Mara nodded, her green eyes full of quiet understanding. "Be careful, Julian."
I stepped out of the vehicle into the crisp Boston air, walking up the weathered stone steps of the apartment building and pushing open the front door. My heart hammered against my ribs with a strange, unfamiliar rhythm—not the cold, calculated anxiety of a corporate board meeting, but the raw, vulnerable nervousness of a brother meeting his sister for the first time.
I climbed the stairs to the third floor, stopped in front of door 3B, and raised my hand to knock.
Before my knuckles touched the wood, the door suddenly clicked open from the inside.
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A young woman with familiar gray-blue eyes, sharp features, and the unmistakable Whitaker chin stood in the doorway, holding a stack of university textbooks, her expression freezing in absolute shock as she looked up into my face.
"Who are you?" Claire whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "Why do you look like my father?"
