"Sarah, the red backpack," I barked the second she answered, sprinting down the gravel road toward where I had stashed a backup motorcycle under a tarp years ago for emergencies. "Tear the lining of the backpack open. Right now."
I heard the sound of fabric ripping over the line. "Elias... I found it. It's a high-grade military transponder stitched into a fake seam."
"Crush it under your tire and leave it on a passing freight train, then take Leo to the secondary location," I ordered, throwing the tarp off the heavy, matte-black motorcycle. "Do they have visual on you yet?"
"No," Sarah said, her voice completely calm under pressure. "We're clear. He's safe, Elias."
"Keep him that way," I said, ending the call.
I tossed my phone into the woods to ensure Vance couldn't triangulate my cellular signal.
My son was safe. My location was dark. The police were hunting a ghost.
I sat on the motorcycle in the dark, the engine quiet, the cold wind blowing through the trees. For five years, I had fought the darkness inside me, terrified that if I let the monster out, it would consume the good father I was trying to be.
But Marcus Vance had shown me the truth. Some monsters deserve to be let out, specifically to hunt the men who think their money makes them untouchable.
I kicked the starter. The engine roared to life, shattering the silence of the woods.
I didn't drive away to hide. I drove straight into the heart of the city.
Vance Construction Headquarters was a towering glass-and-steel monolith in the center of the financial district, overlooking the city he practically owned. At midnight on a Saturday, the building was largely empty, save for executive security.
I parked the motorcycle a block away, in the shadow of a parking garage. I still had the burner phone tucked safely in my interior pocket. The video was safe. But just turning it over to the local cops was useless; Vance had already proven he owned them. I needed to force a federal hand, and I needed to do it violently enough that Vance couldn't sweep it under a rug.
I approached the rear loading dock of the tower. I didn't bother trying to pick the electronic lock. I bypassed the security panel entirely by removing the metal casing and crossing the mag-lock wiring, forcing the heavy steel door to slide open.
I moved through the empty, sterile hallways of the ground floor, bypassing the camera blind spots effortlessly. I found the central freight elevator, hot-wired the manual override, and rode it to the top floor—the executive suite.
The elevator doors parted with a soft chime.
The penthouse lobby was expansive, featuring expensive modern art and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city. Standing outside the heavy double doors of Vance’s office were two large men in tailored suits. Executive protection. The real deal, not street thugs like the guys at my cabin.
They saw me stepping out of the elevator. They immediately reached under their jackets.
I didn’t slow down. I charged them like a battering ram.
The man on the right cleared his holster, but I was already there. I slammed my forearm into his wrist, deflecting his aim toward the ceiling. With my other hand, I grabbed his expensive silk tie, wrapped it fiercely around my fist, and pulled him violently forward into a devastating knee strike to his chest. He collapsed into a groaning heap on the marble floor.
The second guard swung a heavy, steel-plated tactical baton directly at my head. I slipped under the arc of the swing, stepped into his space, and delivered a punishing series of palm strikes to his ribs. I felt the bone give way under the impact. He dropped the baton, gasping, and I shoved him backward into the drywall with enough force to crack the plaster.
I left them both writhing on the floor, breathless and broken.
I walked up to the heavy mahogany doors of the executive office and kicked them perfectly in the center. The double doors burst inward, the lock completely shattering.
Marcus Vance was standing behind his massive oak desk. He was a distinguished, silver-haired man wearing a thousand-dollar suit, holding a crystal glass of whiskey. Sitting on the leather couch across the room, looking pale, terrified, and small, was his son, Rick.
Vance didn't flinch when the doors broke. He just set his glass down.
"I have to say, Elias, I'm impressed," Vance said smoothly, buttoning his suit jacket. "My men reported the tracker went dark. And yet, here you are. Have you come to kill me?"
"You aren't worth the effort it takes to dig a hole," I said, walking slowly into the center of the office.
Rick scrambled backward on the couch, pulling his knees to his chest, terrified of me after what happened on the roof.
"Then let's make a deal," Vance said, opening a drawer and pulling out a heavy, leather-bound checkbook. "Name your price. The burner phone for a very comfortable retirement. I'll even drop the kidnapping charges and get the police off your back."
"You don't get it, do you, Marcus?" I asked, stopping a few feet from his desk. "You built a fifty-million-dollar athletic center out of chalk and spit. You were going to let a roof collapse on three thousand kids just to save your profit margin. And when you realized I might catch the structural flaw, you told your son to terrorize a seven-year-old boy."
I looked at Rick. The teenager was trembling, looking at his father with wide, betrayed eyes.