“So, it’s ‘ghost’ cargo,” Mike realized. “Exactly. Legally, it doesn’t exist. But the people who lost it know exactly what it’s worth.” This explained why Vance and Russo were circling like vultures. They were trying to recover a shipment that was never supposed to be there in the first place.
The pressure in Fisher’s Cove was reaching a boiling point. Vance was offering $50,000 now, trying to tempt a hungry fisherman into talking. Russo’s guys were more direct; they were spotted following Mike’s truck and hanging around the kids’ school. One evening, Russo’s associate, a guy with a faded anchor tattoo on his neck, cornered Mike at the marina.
“Listen, Rollins,” the guy said, leaning in close. “Tony’s a patient man, but he’s not *that* patient. We know you found it. Just give us the coordinates, take a ‘finder’s fee,’ and we all go home happy. Don’t make this about your family.” The threat was thinly veiled. Mike felt a surge of anger, but he kept his cool. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you follow my kids again, we’re going to have a very different conversation.”
Susan was terrified. “Mike, let’s just tell them where it is. It’s not worth it.” But Mike was stubborn. He wasn’t just fighting for the money anymore; he was fighting against the idea that these bullies could just walk into his town and take whatever they wanted. He needed a different kind of help.
He reached out to a journalist he’d met a few years back, Ellen Moore. She was an investigative reporter for a major regional paper, known for her “David vs. Goliath” stories. Mike met her at a quiet roadside diner twenty miles out of town. Ellen was sharp, professional, and immediately saw the potential in the story. “A fisherman finds a million-dollar ‘ghost’ shipment and gets squeezed by scammers? That’s front-page news, Mike.”
“I don’t want to be a celebrity, Ellen. I want protection,” Mike said. “If this goes public, they can’t touch me without the whole world watching.” Ellen agreed to help, but she had her own conditions. She wanted the full scoop. She used her sources in the FBI’s maritime crimes unit to vet Vance and Russo. It turned out Vance was a disgraced former insurance adjuster with a history of fraud, and Russo was linked to a regional smuggling ring.
“Here’s the plan,” Ellen said. “We go to a maritime attorney I know in Portland. We file a formal ‘Notice of Salvage’ in federal court. Once that’s on the record, the cargo is under the court’s jurisdiction. If Vance or Russo try anything, they’re interfering with a federal case.”
The attorney, Andrew Sullivan, was a specialist in the Law of the Sea. He was a tall, methodical man who didn’t blink at the million-dollar figure. “Mr. Rollins, the law is actually quite clear here. Since the original owners committed fraud and the insurance has already been settled, the cargo is technically ‘derelict.’ You have a very strong claim for a significant salvage award—possibly the entire value of the goods.”
But the scammers weren’t going down without a fight. Vance filed a counter-claim, using forged power-of-attorney documents from a shell company in Madagascar. Russo, realizing the legal route was closing, decided to take a more desperate approach. One night, Mike was woken by the sound of breaking glass. Someone had tossed a brick through his front window. Attached was a note: *Last chance.*
