Chapter 5 - THE DESPERATE RECOVERY ATTEMPTWith his money gone, his uncle ruined, and federal charges hanging over his head, Grant Mercer hit absolute rock bottom.
He was forced to move into a dingy, one-bedroom apartment in a rundown district of Maryland. Chloe Vance, realizing Grant was no longer her ticket to a life of luxury, had emptied what little money was left in his remaining personal account and fled to Miami—leaving him with a stack of unpaid bills and a fake diamond ring that turned out to be worth less than $200.
Grant was broke, humiliated, and facing up to twenty years in federal prison.
But desperation makes dangerous men foolish.
One rainy midnight, a week before his criminal trial was set to begin, Grant stood outside the perimeter fence of the Langley Estate in Middleburg. He was soaked to the bone, wearing a dingy jacket, his eyes wild with a mixture of rage, greed, and delusion.
He convinced himself that if he could just get inside, if he could just talk to me alone, he could manipulate me. He thought he could use Maya as emotional leverage, apologize, cry, and convince me to drop the charges and give him a share of the $20 million trust.
Using a set of wire cutters he had bought at a gas station, Grant cut through the chain-link section of the outer security fence and slipped into the dark woods surrounding the mansion.
"She loved me," Grant muttered to himself, stumbling through the mud. "She’s just hurt. She’s putting on a show for her military bosses. Once she sees me, once I tell her I miss her... she’ll break. She always takes me back."
He crept across the manicured lawn toward the back patio, where a single light burned inside the kitchen.
He reached the sliding glass door, grabbed the handle, and pulled. To his shock, it was unlocked.
"I knew it," Grant grinned, stepping into the warm, quiet house. "She was waiting for me."
He crept down the hallway, following the soft glow of a lamp coming from the main study. He took a deep breath, composed his face into a picture of heartbreak, and pushed the door open.
"Tessa... baby, please don't shoot," Grant whimpered softly, stepping into the room with his hands raised. "I came to apologize. I made a terrible mistake..."
The lights snapped on, blinding him.
Grant blinked rapidly. When his vision cleared, his knees almost buckled.
I wasn't sitting alone weeping over old photo albums.
I was sitting at the massive oak desk wearing full tactical fatigue gear. Standing around the room were four heavily armed operators from my strategic special forces unit, their assault rifles held at low-ready positions, their faces covered by balaclavas.
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Sitting in a chair beside my desk was Assistant US Attorney Mark Ellison, holding an electronic recording device.
"Welcome back home, Grant," I said quietly, taking a sip of coffee. "We’ve been tracking your GPS signal since you crossed the property line ten minutes ago."
