Chapter 4 - The Strike at Damon Vance
Damon Vance’s private estate in the affluent suburb of Lake Forest was a sprawling stone mansion surrounded by acres of dense, dark woods and secured by a massive iron security gate.
Inside the opulent, wood-paneled library, Damon sat behind a massive mahogany desk, sipping an aged cognac. On the desk lay three separate burner phones, along with a stack of property deeds he planned to execute once Valeria’s financial collapse was finalized.
It was 3:00 PM. Julian was supposed to have called two hours ago to confirm that the thirty-five million dollar transfer had been initiated.
Damon picked up one of the burner phones and dialed Julian’s encrypted number.
“The mobile subscriber you are trying to reach is unavailable or out of coverage range…”
Damon slammed the phone down onto the desk, a sudden knot of tension tightening in his gut. “Useless idiot,” he muttered. “He probably got nervous and drank himself into a stupor.”
He pulled out his second phone and dialed his contact inside Cook County Family Court—the official he had bribed to fast-track the fraudulent divorce decree.
The line rang twice before a trembling, panicked voice answered.
“Damon! Don’t call this number ever again!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Damon demanded, his voice cold and sharp. “Did Julian execute the spousal verification affidavit?”
“It’s a trap, Damon! The FBI just raided the county clerk’s archive office ten minutes ago! They pulled the entire Vance divorce docket! They have the original signature pages, the notary logs, and the financial tracking for the bribe payment you sent through Panama! Julian Cross was arrested at Vance Tower an hour ago!”
Damon’s blood ran cold. The glass of cognac slipped from his hand, shattering on the Persian rug, splashing dark amber liquid across his leather shoes.
“What?!” Damon roared, standing up so fast his heavy leather chair crashed backward into the bookshelf behind him. “Julian was arrested? On what charges?!”
“Perjury, wire fraud, and federal security violations! They’re issuing warrants for everyone linked to Aegis Innovations! They know about you, Damon! Get out of the country NOW!”
The line went dead.
Damon stood frozen in the middle of his library, his heart hammering like a trapped animal’s inside his chest. Panic—raw, blinding, primal panic—flooded his veins.
“Valeria…” Damon hissed through clenched teeth. “That ungrateful little bitch…”
He didn’t hesitate. Damon was a criminal, but he was a pragmatic one. He pulled a hidden key from his vest pocket, walked over to a oil painting on the wall, swung it open, and unlocked a heavy steel wall safe. Inside were three forged passports under different aliases, fifty thousand dollars in cash, and a cold, heavy black 9mm pistol.
He stuffed the cash and passports into a leather duffel bag, racked the slide of the pistol to chamber a round, and tucked it into his shoulder holster.
He was going to take his private helicopter from a private airfield in Kenosha, fly to Canada, and board a non-extradition flight to South America. He had millions stashed in untraceable crypto wallets; he could survive anywhere.
He grabbed the duffel bag and sprinted out of the library, down the grand marble staircase, toward the side exit leading to his private garage.
As he reached the heavy oak doors of the garage, the grand front doors of the mansion were suddenly blown off their hinges with a deafening BOOM.
Glass and wood splinters showered the entryway as a team of tactical officers in black body armor, carrying assault rifles and wearing tactical helmets, poured into the foyer.
“FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPON! GET ON THE GROUND! NOW!”
Damon’s instinct for self-preservation kicked in. He spun around, pulled his 9mm pistol, and fired two wild shots toward the entryway before ducking into the dark service hallway that led to the basement utility tunnels—an old smuggler’s route Arthur Vance had built decades ago when the property was constructed.
Tires screeched outside as more tactical vehicles surrounded the perimeter of the estate.
Damon sprinted down the damp concrete stairs of the basement, his heart pounding against his ribs, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He reached the heavy iron door of the exit tunnel, threw his weight against the latch, and burst out into the misty woods two hundred yards behind the main house.
He thought he had escaped. He dropped the duffel bag, leaning against a massive oak tree, gasping for air, a hysterical laugh escaping his lips.
“Idiots,” Damon panted, wiping sweat from his eyes. “You think you can trap me in my own house?”
“We didn't trap you in the house, Damon,” a cool, calm voice echoed from the shadows of the trees. “We channeled you right where we wanted you.”
Damon spun around, raising his pistol.
Standing twenty paces away, framed by the misty birch trees, was Valeria Vance.
She was wearing a long black wool coat, her arms folded across her chest, her expression entirely devoid of fear. Standing beside her were Marcus Thorne and four heavily armed private security operatives, their rifles trained squarely on Damon’s chest.
Damon’s eyes darted wildly between Valeria and the laser sights dancing across his leather jacket.
“Valeria…” Damon sneered, his grip tightening on the pistol. “You always were Arthur’s favorite little puppet. You think you’ve won? I’ll blow your head off before your bodyguards can take a shot!”
“Try it, Damon,” Valeria said, stepping forward, taking a slow, deliberate step toward him. “Shoot me. Add murder of an heir to your list of federal treason, wire fraud, forgery, and embezzlement charges.”
“Shut up!” Damon screamed, his hands shaking violently. “Your father stole this family’s legacy from me! Vance Logistics should have been mine! I was the one who worked the docks! I was the one who did the dirty work! And he gave everything to a spoiled little girl who writes computer code!”
“My father didn’t cut you out because I was his favorite, Damon,” Valeria said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. “He cut you out because you are a weak, pathetic parasite who couldn’t build anything of your own. You tried to steal from him while he was alive, and you tried to steal from me while he was dying.”
She took another step closer. She was now less than ten feet away from the barrel of his gun.
“Look at you,” Valeria said, her dark eyes filled with absolute disdain. “Standing in the mud, hiding in the woods like a rat. Is this the legacy you wanted?”
Damon’s breath hitched. The weight of his utter defeat crashed down upon him. He looked at the red laser dots covering his body, he looked at Valeria’s unyielding, terrifyingly calm face, and he realized he had nowhere left to run.
His hand trembled so badly the gun began to shake.
“Drop the weapon, Damon,” Marcus Thorne commanded, his thumb sliding the safety off his own sidearm. “You have three seconds before I put a round through your shoulder.”
Damon let out a broken, sob-like groan. The pistol slipped from his numb fingers, clattering uselessly against the wet rocks on the ground.
Two of Marcus’s operatives surged forward, kicking the gun away, tackling Damon to the muddy ground, and wrenching his arms behind his back with brutal efficiency.
Damon’s face was pressed into the cold, wet dirt. He looked up sideways at Valeria, tears of rage and humiliation mixing with the mud on his cheeks.
“You won’t get away with this, Valeria!” Damon spat, his voice muffled by the dirt. “Julian and I will fight this! We’ll drag your name through every tabloid in the country!”
Valeria looked down at him as if he were nothing more than a stain on her shoe.
“You won’t fight anything, Damon,” Valeria said quietly. “Victoria Sterling has already filed for a total freeze of your personal assets. You don’t even have enough money left to pay a public defender.”
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She turned her back on him, walking toward the sleek black SUV parked at the edge of the woods.
“Enjoy prison, cousin,” Valeria called over her shoulder as the police sirens began to wail in the distance, surrounding the estate. “My father sends his regards.”
