His phone buzzed repeatedly—a frantic, unrelenting vibration that forced him to let go of the blonde woman’s waist. He stared at the screen, his thumbs trembling so violently he nearly dropped the device onto the polished marble floor.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry.

I instantly tapped my phone screen, pulling up the live GPS tracking app linked to my children's cell phones. Two bright green dots were moving along Interstate 95 toward my sister’s house in Connecticut, flanked by two black SUVs containing my hired security team.

I pressed speed dial for Marcus, the head of my security detail.

"Marcus, status report," I ordered.

"We’re clear, Ms. Vance," Marcus replied calmly over the encrypted line. "We spotted a suspicious grey sedan tailing the kids' suburban ten minutes ago. We executed a box maneuver and forced them off the highway. We have two of Victor’s men restrained in the back of our van right now."

A wave of relief washed over me, but I kept my voice deadpan. "Good. Transport the kids to the safehouse in Maine. Doubled security. No one goes in or out without my biometric clearance."

"Understood, ma'am. What about you?"

"I have a dinner meeting," I said, looking out at the foggy harbor below. "And I'm going to finish this once and for all."

At 11:00 PM, thick fog rolled off the ocean, wrapping the abandoned shipping containers of Dock 19 in a ghost-like haze.

I walked down the dark concrete pier wearing a black trench coat, my footsteps echoing against the wet ground. In my right hand, I carried a silver USB flash drive containing the master encryption keys. In my left coat pocket, my hand rested on the grip of a compact 9mm pistol.

Out of the darkness, two towering bodyguards stepped forward, searching me quickly before gesturing toward a lit warehouse at the end of the dock.

Inside, sitting on a leather armchair surrounded by crate boxes, was Victor Vance. Beside him, dressed in an expensive leather jacket, was Chloe Mercer.

And tied to a wooden chair in the middle of the room, bruised, bloody, and weeping hysterically, was Jack.

"Megan!" Jack cried out, his voice muffled behind heavy duct tape. His face was swollen, his designer shirt torn to shreds. When he saw me, his eyes filled with a pathetic mixture of hope and shame.

Victor stood up, clapping his hands slowly. "Bravo, Megan. Truly. You walk into the lion’s den without a flinch. You always were your father’s daughter."

"Let him go, Victor," I said, stopping ten feet away. "Jack is useless to you now. His license is revoked, his reputation is destroyed, and his bank accounts are gone."

"Oh, Jack isn't my leverage anymore," Victor chuckled, stepping toward me. "He was just the bait to bring you here. Hand over the flash drive, Megan. Give me the Vance patents, and I'll let you walk out of here alive."

Chloe stepped forward, a smug smile playing on her lips. "Give him what he wants, Megan. You lost. You thought you were so clever playing the victimized wife, but you were just building Victor’s empire for him."

I looked at Chloe, then at Victor, and finally at Jack, who was whimpering in his chair.

"You really think I came here to surrender?" I asked softly.

Victor’s smile faded. "You're alone, Megan. You have no leverage."

"I’m never alone, Uncle Victor," I replied.

I raised my right hand and pressed a small button on my wrist watch.

Instantly, floodlights exploded from the rafters above, blinding everyone in the room. The sound of smashing glass echoed overhead as tactical assault teams rappelled down from the roof beams, laser sights painting red dots across Victor’s bodyguards.

"FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! DOWN ON THE GROUND NOW!"

Screams rang out. Victor’s guards dropped their guns instantly, raising their hands in the air. Chloe shrieked, falling to her knees in terror.

Victor stumbled backward, his face twisted in disbelief. "What... what is this?!"

Agent Ramirez stepped out from behind a stack of shipping crates, a heavy assault rifle raised, flanked by twenty armed SWAT officers.

"Victor Vance," Ramirez announced. "You are under arrest for domestic terrorism, attempted kidnapping, extortion, and operating an international money laundering syndicate."

I stepped past the kneeling guards and walked up to Victor, who was being forced to the floor by two agents.

I leaned down, holding up the silver USB drive.

"This drive doesn't contain the patents, Victor," I whispered into his ear. "It contains a live feed of this warehouse. Everything you just said was broadcast directly to a federal grand jury."