Chapter 6 - THE RETALIATIONThe fall of Julian Vance sent shockwaves through Illinois that reached all the way to Washington D.C.
Within forty-eight hours, federal prosecutors unsealed a thirty-count indictment naming Vance, Blake Monroe, three suburban judges, and two high-ranking city building inspectors in a massive, decades-long land bribery syndicate.
The news was everywhere. My phone had to be switched to silent because of the hundreds of interview requests from The New York Times, CNN, and The Washington Post.
I ignored them all.
I was back where I belonged—in Dad’s garden behind the brick bungalow, wearing old jeans and a worn sweater, turning over the dark soil near the rosebushes he had planted twenty years ago.
The physical labor felt good. It grounded me after the storm of legal warfare.
CRASH!
The sharp, terrifying sound of shattering glass exploded from the front of the house.
I dropped my trowel instantly, my head snapping toward the house.
THUD! THUD! THUD!
Heavy footsteps were echoing inside the hallway. Someone had just kicked in the front door.
I didn't panic. Instinct took over. I reached into the pocket of my gardening apron, pulled out my phone, and hit the speed-dial button for the direct line to the FBI Task Force officer who had been assigned to monitor my location.
“Agent Miller!” I whispered urgently, moving quickly toward the shadow of the garage. “Someone just broke into my house!”
“Emily! Stay where you are!” Miller’s voice barked back through the speaker. “We’re two minutes away! Do not engage!”
I peaked around the side of the brick wall toward the back porch windows.
Inside the kitchen, I saw two tall men dressed in heavy black hoodies and dark jeans. One of them was holding a crowbar; the other had his hand inside his jacket pocket—a distinct shape that could only be a firearm.
They weren't common burglars. They weren't stealing the TV or looking for jewelry. They were methodically tearing apart my office space. Files were being ripped out of drawers and thrown across the floor. My desktop computer was slammed onto the ground and smashed with the crowbar.
“Where is the hard drive?!” one of the men growled, his voice thick and aggressive. “Vance said she keeps the backup server in the house!”
My blood ran cold.
Julian Vance was in federal custody, but his empire wasn't completely dead yet. He had deployed his enforcement wing—the muscle he used when legal threats failed—to destroy the original digital evidence servers before the grand jury could formalize the secondary indictments.
“Check the basement!” the second man ordered. “And if she’s in the house, make sure she doesn't talk to anyone ever again!”
I knew this house better than anyone alive. Dad and I had spent years renovating every inch of it.
I carefully stepped onto the back porch, keeping my weight on the outer edges of the wooden steps to prevent them from creaking. I slipped through the open screen door into the mudroom, grabbing heavy iron pry bar Dad kept in his toolbox by the door.
I didn't run away. If they found the hidden floor safe in the basement, they would destroy the physical logs that proved Vance’s connection to the offshore banking accounts—evidence that wasn't on the main server.
I moved silently down the hallway toward the basement door.
The man with the crowbar was standing near my desk, his back turned to me as he ripped open the bottom cabinet.
I didn't hesitate. I stepped up behind him and brought the iron pry bar down with all my strength right onto his forearm.
CRACK!
“AGHHH!” he screamed, dropping the crowbar as his arm buckled.
He spun around, his face contorted in agony, but before he could react, I slammed the iron bar across his kneecap. He collapsed to the floor with a heavy groan, clutching his leg.
“WHAT THE HELL?!” the second man roared, bursting out of the hallway into the living room, drawing a dark metal handgun from his jacket.
He leveled the barrel straight at my chest.
“Drop the bar, bitch!” he screamed, his finger tightening on the trigger.
I froze. The cold metal barrel stared at me from ten feet away. Time seemed to slow down. I could hear the wind rustling the leaves outside, the sound of the broken glass under my boots, the heavy breathing of the man bleeding on the floor.
“You think you’re smart, don't you?” the gunman sneered, stepping closer. “Vance pays three million dollars to anyone who wipes out this case. You just bought yourself a bullet.”
SIRENS WAILING!
High-pitched, screaming police sirens suddenly echoed through the quiet residential street outside, growing louder by the second. Red and blue lights flashed wildly through the front windows.
The gunman’s eyes flicked toward the window for a split second—a fatal mistake.
BANG!
The front door burst completely off its hinges as Agent Miller and three tactical officers surged into the room, shields raised.
“FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP THE WEAPON! DROP IT NOW!”
The gunman panicked, turning his weapon toward the front door.
TASER FIRED!
Two electrical prongs struck the gunman squarely in the chest. Ten thousand volts of electricity surged through his body. His muscles instantly locked up, his eyes rolled back, and he dropped the gun as he crashed face-first onto the wooden floorboards.
“SECURE THE PREMISES!” Miller yelled, rushing over to me and pulling me behind his ballistic shield. “Emily! Are you hit?! Are you okay?!”
I took a deep, shuddering breath, lowering the iron bar from my hands.
I looked at the two men lying on the floor in handcuffs, then at my ruined living room—the overturned furniture, the shattered glass, the scattered papers.
“I’m fine, Miller,” I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through my veins.
May you like
I looked down at the gunman who was groaning on the floor.
“Tell Julian Vance,” I said softly, “that he’s going to need a lot more than three million dollars to stop me.”
