The screen door slammed behind us, sealing in the stifling tension of the San Diego house I thought was a sanctuary. My fingers tightened around Nora’s small, cold hand as we walked down the concrete driveway toward my car.

The Astoria logging camp was a sprawling, abandoned industrial complex swallowed by towering everfires and thick coastal fog. Rusted timber-cutting machinery stood like skeletal remains against the gray sky, surrounded by dilapidated corrugated-metal warehouses.

I parked my truck half a mile down the unpaved logging road, cutting the headlights and the engine. Stepping out into the cool, damp night air, I checked the weight of the Glock 19 Caleb had overnighted to me via a secure courier drop.

According to Caleb’s live thermal feed, there were two heat signatures inside the main maintenance shed—a sprawling, tin-roofed structure with a flickering halogen light hanging over the rusted double doors.

I moved through the underbrush like a shadow, my boots making no sound on the thick bed of pine needles. The damp smell of decaying wood and diesel fuel hung heavy in the air.

Reaching the side window of the shed, I peered through the grime-streaked glass.

Inside sat a man I recognized from the federal dossier—Marcus Vance, Colin’s younger brother and a dishonored military contractor turned mercenary. He was leaning over a camp table littered with laptops, satellite phones, and cash bundles, arguing loudly into a burner phone.

"I don't care about the federal indictments!" Marcus shouted into the phone. "The father thinks he can hide in Oregon? We hit the kid at school tomorrow morning, and he’ll sign whatever we put in front of him!"

My finger rested lightly against the trigger of my sidearm. The primal instinct to kick the door open and end it right there screamed in my mind. But Caleb’s voice echoed in my ear from our encrypted earpiece: "Hold position, Ethan. Let him finish the transmission. My scraper bots are tracking the outgoing IP to find the financial backer in Geneva."

I waited, muscles locked, breathing slow and controlled.

Three agonizing minutes ticked by. Then, the computer screen on Marcus’s desk flashed a confirmation prompt.

“IP Trace Complete. Origin: Geneva, Switzerland. Entity confirmed: Apex Global Holdings (Grace’s primary shadow trust).”

"Got it," Caleb whispered in my ear. "The entire offshore empire is mapped. The federal marshals are executing the asset freeze right now. Marcus is cut off."