Chapter 3 - THE BROTHER’S REVENGEThey thought they were being discreet.
At 1:15 AM, a dark metallic blue sedan crept down the unlit residential street where my mother’s primary residence sat. The engine was muffled, its headlights extinguished long before it turned onto the block.
I sat in the dark interior of my unmarked SUV parked two houses down, hidden beneath the thick shade of a weeping willow tree. In my hand, I held a high-resolution thermal imaging scope aimed directly at my mother’s front lawn.
Two figures emerged from the sedan. They moved with tactical efficiency—low postures, quick movements, staying in the blind spots of the streetlights. One carried a heavy pelican case; the other had a sidearm holstered beneath a dark windbreaker.
Through the thermal scope, their bodies glowed bright orange and yellow against the cool blue ambient background of the night.
"Target confirmed," I whispered into my earpiece. "Two individuals entering the perimeter through the rear garden gate. One is carrying an equipment case, likely electronics or incendiary devices. The second is armed."
"Copy that, Agent Vance," Ethan’s voice cracked through the secure radio comms from his position around the corner. "We have the perimeter sealed. Do we take them now?"
"Negative," I replied, watching the two heat signatures maneuver toward the back patio door. "Let them break the threshold. I want them caught in the act of felony burglary and tampering with evidence. If we hit them on the lawn, their lawyers will claim they were just 'securing private property' for the family."
"Understood. Stand by."
I watched as the larger figure—the one I recognized from department records as Detective Thomas Vance—used a specialized lock-picking kit on the rear sliding door. Within twenty seconds, the mechanism gave way with a faint click.
The moment both figures stepped inside the kitchen, I gave the order.
"GO! GO! GO!"
Floodlights mounted on three unmarked federal vehicles surrounding the house erupted into a blinding glare, illuminating the entire backyard in white light. Sirens shrieked, shattering the quiet suburban night.
"FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND GET ON THE GROUND!"
Inside the house, chaos broke out. Through the kitchen window, I saw Thomas Vance draw his service weapon, his head swinging frantically toward the front driveway where two federal vans had ripped across the lawn.
I didn't wait for the tactical team to breach the front door. I kicked open my car door, drew my SIG Sauer P226, and sprinted toward the rear entrance, flanking the invaders.
I rounded the corner of the patio just as the second man—a muscular private contractor hired by the Vance family—tried to sprint out the back glass door.
"DOWN!" I screamed, driving my shoulder directly into his sternum.
The impact slammed him backward into the dining room table, shattering a crystal vase. The heavy equipment case tumbled out of his hands, bursting open on the hardwood floor. Dozens of liquid accelerant canisters—industrial-grade thermite charges—spilled out across the rug.
They weren't just here to wipe servers. They were going to burn the house to the ground and turn my mother’s evidence into ashes.
"Don't move, or I will drop you!" I shouted, keeping my sights centered on the contractor’s chest as he groaned on the floor, gasping for air.
In the adjacent hallway, Thomas Vance backed into the living room, his service weapon raised, his face twisted in a mixture of panic and rage. "Get the hell back!" he screamed, his badge hanging around his neck on a silver chain. "I'm a detective with the Metro Police! I have authority over this jurisdiction!"
"You're a dirty cop committing arson and obstruction of justice, Thomas!" I shouted back, stepping into the hallway, maintaining a perfect tactical stance. "Lower the weapon! It's over!"
"You ruined his life!" Thomas yelled, his gun hand trembling violently. "Garrick built an empire, and you and that worthless bitch mother of yours ruined everything! You think you can put a Vance in prison? We run this county!"
"Your brother is a serial extortionist and a monster," I said, my voice ice cold, taking a slow step forward to narrow the distance. "And you just destroyed your own career to cover up his crimes. Look out the window, Thomas. There are twelve federal agents surrounding this house. If you pull that trigger, you won't live long enough to stand trial."
Thomas glanced toward the front bay windows. Red and blue strobe lights flashed relentlessly against the walls. The heavy thud of tactical boots echoed on the front porch, followed by the deafening sound of a battering ram smashing into the front door frame.
CRASH!
The front door gave way. FBI tactical operators poured into the foyer, their laser sights painting Thomas’s chest in a web of crimson dots.
"DROP THE WEAPON! NOW!" Ethan’s voice boomed above the noise.
Thomas looked from Ethan to me, the realization finally breaking through his rage that he was utterly, hopelessly trapped. The gun felt heavy in his trembling hand. Slowly, agonizingly, he let his finger slip off the trigger guard and dropped the weapon onto the floorboards.
Two tactical agents tackled him to the ground, pinning his arms behind his back and forcing his face down onto the wood.
"Thomas Vance, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit arson, obstruction of justice, and felony breaking and entering," Ethan announced, stepping over the fallen gun to slap heavy steel cuffs onto the detective’s wrists.
I lowered my weapon, my breathing steady, and walked over to the open equipment case on the dining room floor. Beside the thermite charges sat a small electronic device—a high-frequency signal jammer and a military-grade hard drive duplicator.
They hadn't just come to burn the house. They had come to retrieve something specific from Garrick's hidden floor safe before setting the fire.
I looked at Ethan. "He has the key or the combination on him. Search his pockets."
Ethan knelt beside Thomas, who was gritting his teeth in silence on the floor. Ethan reached into the inside pocket of Thomas’s leather jacket and pulled out a small, metallic silver thumb drive, along with a handwritten piece of paper containing a eight-digit alphanumeric code.
"What is this, Thomas?" Ethan asked, holding the drive in front of the arrested cop's face.
Thomas snapped his mouth shut, refusing to speak.
"It doesn't matter," I said, taking the drive from Ethan’s hand. "This is the master decryption key for Garrick's primary server. He gave it to Thomas to back up the files before burning the house."
I walked out to my SUV, plugged the encrypted thumb drive into my laptop, and entered the code.
The screen flashed red for a second, then turned bright green. A file directory popped up, listing hundreds of folder paths.
As I scrolled down the list, my eyes stopped on a folder dated six years ago—two years before Garrick ever met my mother.
The folder was labeled: PROJECT PHENIX - ACQUISITIONS.
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Inside were seven sub-folders, each bearing the name of an elderly, wealthy widow.
And beside six of those seven names was a small red symbol: a digital skull and crossbones icon, followed by a recorded date of death.
