Chapter 8 - The Confrontation
"Marcus Reed!" Victor Vance’s voice echoed across the quiet yard, smooth, cultured, and chillingly confident. "I know you're in there with the Caldwell girl! Let's talk like reasonable gentlemen!"
Reed stood near the door, his firearm aimed through the glass frame. "You're trespassing on a crime scene, Vance! I have five units en route right now!"
"No, you don't," Vance chuckled softly, his voice amplified by a portable speaker one of his men held. "Your dispatch radio frequency is currently jammed within a two-block radius. And as for trespassing? I hold a recorded $800,000 lien against this parcel. Technically, I have a legal right to inspect my collateral."
Vance stepped closer to the workshop door, flanked by two heavy-set men with concealed shoulder holsters.
"I know what Thomas left in that shop, Detective," Vance said, his tone turning cold. "The old man was clever. Too clever for his own good. He thought he could hold federal bank fraud records over my head. But Thomas is dead. And his soldier daughter is injured."
"I’m standing right here, Vance!" I called out, stepping up beside Reed, resting my arm on the workbench for support.
"Captain Caldwell," Vance said, his shadow falling across the frosted glass. "A hero of the nation. I admire your service. But this is not Syria. This is Chicago real estate. You cannot defeat a system that I own."
"I don't need to defeat a system," I replied, holding up the black flash drive so his men could see it through the window beam. "I just need to press 'Send.' This shop has an independent satellite internet transceiver Dad installed for his ham radio set. The moment I hit enter, every file on this drive—including your bribery list of Cook County judges—goes straight to the FBI Special Agent in Charge of Financial Crimes."
Vance stopped dead in his tracks. For the first time, his smooth demeanor faltered.
"You're bluffing," Vance sneered. "An old carpenter didn't have satellite transmission capability."
"Try me," I said coldly. "He was a Navy radio operator before he became a carpenter. Check the antenna on the roof."
Vance looked up at the tall steel radio mast mounted to the workshop roof, his eyes narrowing. He knew Thomas Caldwell was a man of meticulous detail. He couldn't afford to take the risk.
"What do you want, Captain?" Vance asked softly, his voice dropping the arrogance.
"I want a full release of mortgage lien filed with the Cook County Recorder of Deeds within two hours," I demanded. "I want your lawyers to sign a sworn affidavit admitting Grant Mercer acted without authority and that your company holds no claim against the Caldwell estate."
"And what do I get in return?" Vance asked.
"You get a twelve-hour head start before I hand this drive to the Federal Prosecutors," I said. "Which is far more mercy than you gave my father."
Vance stood in the cold wind for a long, agonizing minute. His knuckles turned white against his silver walking stick. He looked at his men, then at the radio mast, and finally at the window where Reed and I stood.
"Twelve hours," Vance said, his teeth clenched.
"Twelve hours," I confirmed. "Starting now."
Vance turned on his heel, motioning to his men. "Get in the cars. Call the legal team. Draft the release of lien immediately."
Within thirty seconds, the sedans backed out of the driveway and sped away into the gathering twilight.
Reed let out a huge breath, lowering his firearm. He looked at me, a mixture of awe and shock on his face. "Emma... does that old radio mast actually have satellite internet?"
May you like
I pulled the flash drive out of the computer and smiled faintly despite the pain in my chest.
"No," I said softly. "It’s been disconnected since 2012. But in military intelligence, rule number one is simple: never let the enemy know what weapons you actually have loaded."
