The Fallen Heroes Memorial Plaza Defended by the United Marines
CHAPTER 4: THE STOLEN NAME OF CORPORAL HARRIS
Clara Diaz tapped the push-to-talk button on her tactical earpiece, connecting directly to the Alexandria Police primary dispatch channel. “Plaza Command, this is Unit Five. Be advised, we have an active syndicate courier on the perimeter of Market Square. Suspect is attempting an in-person handoff with Lamont. He is carrying an encrypted storage device tied to an interstate financial fraud and counterfeiting ring. All perimeter units, scan the crowd for individuals breaking away from the spectator line.”
Gunnery Sergeant Miller stepped up beside Clara, his combat instincts taking over. “Officer Diaz, look at the corner of Fairfax and Cameron. By the Carlyle House archway.”
Clara followed Miller’s line of sight. While ninety-nine percent of the crowd had their mobile phones raised, recording the crushed orange sports car and the cuffed promoter, one individual was moving in the exact opposite direction. He wore a dark navy windbreaker, gray utility trousers, and a black baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He had a heavy, reinforced tactical backpack slung over his right shoulder, and he was walking with rapid, nervous strides toward the shaded cobblestone alley that led down toward the Potomac waterfront.
“That’s him,” Clara said. “He saw the hydraulic bollards deploy. He knows the drop is blown. He’s cutting for the marina.”
“Mounted unit!” Clara commanded over her radio net. “Intercept suspect fleeing eastbound down Prince Street toward the waterfront docks!”
The two Alexandria Mounted Police officers on the northern flank immediately wheeled their massive Percheron draft horses around. The heavy steel horseshoes threw bright sparks against the historic red bricks as the officers urged the thousand-pound animals into a disciplined, earth-shaking trot.
The suspect in the navy windbreaker glanced over his shoulder, saw the towering horses and uniformed riders closing the distance, and broke into a desperate, flat-out sprint down the wet cobblestones of Cameron Street.
“Hold the plaza perimeter, Gunny,” Clara said, taking off in full pursuit.
Thomas Sterling stepped forward, his eyes bright with tactical resolve. “I know these alleys, Officer. The cobblestones end at the old colonial grain warehouse. There’s an iron delivery gate locked on the river side—he’s heading straight into a blind brick cul-de-sac.”
Clara and Sterling sprinted down the narrow brick passage, flanking the suspect from the south as the mounted police unit cut off the northern alley exit.
The suspect rounded the final corner behind the historic Carlyle House, only to slam his hands against an eight-foot-tall wrought-iron security gate that sealed the old warehouse loading dock. Panting, his chest heaving with exhaustion, the man spun around, reaching into his windbreaker pocket for a weapon.
“Alexandria Police! Show your hands!” Clara rounded the corner, her Glock 17 drawn and held in a rock-solid, two-handed low-ready stance. “Keep your hands where I can see them or this ends right now!”
From the cobblestone passage to the left, the two massive patrol horses trotted into the cul-de-sac, their broad chests forming an impassable wall of muscle and leather that completely sealed the brick alley.
The suspect realized he was trapped. Slowly, carefully, he raised both shaking hands into the air, allowing a heavy military-grade encrypted external hard drive to slip from his fingers and clatter onto the damp cobblestones.
“I’m just the courier!” the man gasped, dropping to his knees on the stone pavers. “Don’t shoot! I’m just delivering the data file to Lamont! The whole distribution operation runs out of a warehouse in South Baltimore!”
Clara moved in with surgical efficiency, holstering her weapon, forcing the courier’s arms behind his back, and securing him with her secondary handcuffs. She retrieved the external hard drive from the stones, inspecting the serial number stamped on the aluminum casing.
Thomas Sterling walked up, his breathing steady despite the sprint, his white dress service cap tucked neatly under his arm. He looked down at the kneeling courier with quiet, dignified authority.
“What is on that drive, son?” Sterling asked softly.
The courier swallowed hard, trembling under the veteran’s gaze. “Everything. The shell company incorporation papers. The stolen tax-exempt IDs of twenty-four deceased veterans… and the financial routing numbers for six million dollars in counterfeit luxury apparel shipped through the Port of Baltimore.”
Clara looked at Sterling, her jaw tightening with disgust. “Twenty-four veterans. Lamont didn’t just steal Corporal Harris’s name. He built an entire criminal empire on the graves of men who died for this country.”
“Then we make sure he pays for every single one of them,” Sterling said, his voice ringing with cold, absolute finality.
