Chapter 2 - The Stolen Drive
The deafening blast of the shotgun echoed through the confined concrete garage.
I dove hard to the right just a fraction of a second before he pulled the trigger.
The heavy buckshot shredded the wooden beam exactly where my head had been resting.
I hit the ground rolling and kicked the flashlight completely out of his hands.
The garage was instantly swallowed by pitch-black darkness once again.
Ross cursed loudly and fired a second blind shot into the empty shadows.
I used the muzzle flash to pinpoint his exact location and lunged forward.
My shoulder connected with his ribs, sending him crashing violently into a vintage sports car.
The shotgun clattered across the concrete floor out of his immediate reach.
He threw a wild punch, but my military hand-to-hand training took over effortlessly.
I caught his wrist, twisted it sharply, and drove my knee directly into his stomach.
He collapsed to the floor gasping for air like a dying fish.
I wanted to break every single bone in his body to make him feel Maya's pain.
I forced myself to step away because I needed to get the memory card to a safe computer.
I sprinted out of the side door and vanished back into the thick tree line before security arrived.
I drove back to my cheap motel room and locked the heavy deadbolt behind me.
My hands were shaking slightly as I inserted the memory card into my encrypted laptop.
I opened the video file labeled with yesterday's exact date and time.
The high-definition footage showed Ross and Ethan dragging my terrified daughter into the garage.
It captured every horrific swing of the tire iron and every desperate plea for mercy.
But the camera angle also captured something else entirely unexpected in the deep background.
Arthur Vance and my ex-wife Veronica were standing near a stack of wooden shipping pallets.
They were casually counting millions of dollars in tightly banded cash while Maya screamed.
Maya had not been beaten because she spilled soda on a pair of leather boots.
She was beaten because she had accidentally witnessed a massive international money laundering operation.
I reached for my phone to call the federal authorities with this undeniable proof.
My motel room door suddenly exploded inward in a shower of splintered wood.
Three men in unmarked tactical gear stormed into the room with assault rifles raised.
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The lead gunman pointed his weapon at my chest and ordered me to drop the laptop.
He was wearing a badge that clearly identified him as a federal FBI agent.
