Chapter 7 - The Audit of Agent VanceAgent David Vance had spent twelve years in the IRS Criminal Investigation Division and the FBI’s Organized Crime Task Force. He had put away bank robbers, cartel lieutenants, and corrupt politicians.
He had never, in all his years of service, been audited by a kindergartener.
"Listen to me, kid," Vance said, crouching down to her eye level, his breath frosting in the air. "Where is Marcus Han? Where are the principals of the Han Circle?"
Amara opened the pink folder. She didn't look at Vance; she looked at a sheet of paper covered in star stickers and blue crayon math.
"You spent four thousand two hundred dollars on gas for your undercover cars last month," she said, her tone completely conversational. "But your department only has three cars listed on the motor pool ledger. That means somebody is using the government gas card to drive their girlfriend to Wisconsin."
Vance’s face went completely still.
Behind him, one of the tactical agents shifted uncomfortably in the snow.
"How do you know that?" Vance whispered, his professional veneer cracking down the middle.
"It’s simple subtraction," Amara said, closing the folder with a sharp flap. "My teacher says if you don't show your work, you get a zero. You didn't show your work on the gas cards, Mr. Police Man. That means you're either bad at math or you're hiding something."
At that exact moment, the heavy oak doors opened behind her.
Marcus Han rolled out onto the porch. He wasn't wearing a coat. He wore his tailored black suit, his shoulders straight, his dark eyes fixed on the federal agent with an expression of such cold, absolute authority that even the armed agents took half a step backward.
"Agent Vance," Marcus said, his voice rolling across the courtyard like thunder over the lake. "You're trespassing on private property without a properly executed subpoena for the secondary accounts. My auditor has already pointed out that your department's internal accounting is a liability."
Vance stood up slowly, his eyes darting from Marcus to the little girl, and then back to the federal warrant in his hand. The warrant was signed by a judge who, as Marcus’s legal team had quietly proven three weeks prior, owned a summer home purchased with funds from a corporation that Viktor Vance had managed before his departure to Gary.
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"Han," Vance said, his voice tight. "You can't hide behind a kid."
"I'm not hiding," Marcus said. He reached down, placed a large, calloused hand on Amara’s small shoulder, and pulled her slightly behind his wheelchair. "She’s leading."
