Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Operation Blackout
While Dad rocked Lily to sleep in the quiet sanctuary of my hospital room, thirty miles away in the gated community of Willow Creek, Harrison Vance was desperately trying to burn his life to the ground before the authorities arrived.
In the master study of the Vance estate, papers were flying into a heavy-duty shredder. Marcus sat on the leather sofa, a thick ice pack pressed against his broken nose, whimpering like a child.
"Dad! Why didn't you let me call the police?!" Marcus whined, his voice nasal and thick with blood. "That old bastard assaulted me! He broke my nose! We can sue him for millions! We can put him in prison!"
Harrison spun around, his face pale and slick with cold sweat, and slapped Marcus across the face so hard the ice pack flew across the room.
"Shut up! Shut your stupid, arrogant mouth!" Harrison roared, his voice shaking with pure terror. "You complete idiot! You brought a war to our doorstep!"
Marcus stared at his father in absolute shock, holding his cheek. "What are you talking about?! He’s a mechanic!"
"He was the commander of Task Force 7!" Harrison screamed, grabbing Marcus by the lapels of his shirt. "Thirty years ago, when I was working as a junior financial contractor for the Defense Department, I watched Thomas Vance clear an entire armed compound in Bogota with a knife and a suppressed sidearm! The CIA called him 'Falcon' because once he locked onto a target, they didn't exist anymore! He was declared dead twice! He has top-tier political protection from generals who are now sitting in the Senate!"
Harrison let go of Marcus, pacing frantically across the room.
"I spent three years trying to force Phoebe to sign away her rights because I thought she was just an isolated girl with a deaf father," Harrison whimpered, pulling a handful of cash from his safe. "If I had known she was Thomas Vance's daughter... I would have forced you to crawl on your hands and knees to treat her like a queen!"
"So... so what do we do?" Marcus asked, real terror finally seeping into his narcissistic brain.
"We take the offshore accounts, we pack the passports, and we get on a private charter to Grand Cayman tonight," Harrison said, jamming bundles of hundred-dollar bills into a leather duffel bag. "Because if Thomas Vance has evidence, he won't just put us in jail. He will destroy every single thing we own."
Suddenly, the lights in the estate flickered once, twice, and then went completely black.
The roar of emergency generators failed to kick in. The electronic smart-locks on the study doors clicked sharply, locking automatically from the outside.
"What the hell?" Marcus gasped, standing up in the pitch darkness.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling study windows, two black SUVs pulled onto the manicured lawn, their headlights cutting through the darkness. Eight men dressed in tactical gear step out, led by a tall man in a dark trench coat carrying a federal warrant folder.
It was Detective Ray Miller—Dad’s former squad mate from Task Force 7, now head of the State Police Special Investigations Division.
Through the heavy glass windows, Detective Miller lifted a bullhorn to his mouth.
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"Harrison Vance! Marcus Vance!" Miller’s voice echoed across the quiet estate grounds. "This is the State Police and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We have a warrant for your arrest for domestic abuse, witness intimidation, corporate wire fraud, and grand embezzlement. Step out with your hands up!"
Harrison dropped his duffel bag onto the floor, his knees giving out as he sank to the carpet in total, absolute defeat.
