Chapter 3 - THE WAR ROOM
The safe house in downtown D.C. looked like an abandoned textiles factory from the outside. Inside, it was a state-of-the-art command center.
When I walked through the heavy steel doors, three men were already waiting for me.
Miller, the best signals intelligence hacker the NSA had ever officially disavowed, was typing furiously at a bank of six glowing monitors.
Cross, a former Marine Force Recon sniper who now worked as a private contractor, was methodically stripping and cleaning a custom M4 carbine on a steel table.
And finally, Vance—no relation to the monsters who hurt my daughter—a logistical mastermind who could move weapons, money, and bodies anywhere in the world without leaving a paper trail.
"Good to see you, Commander," Cross said, not looking up from his weapon. "Heard you had a pest control problem."
"The Vance family in Maryland," I said, tossing a flash drive onto Miller's desk. "Emily is secure. Now, I want them dismantled. Brick by brick. Dollar by dollar. I want to know what time they wake up, what they eat, and exactly who they owe money to in Miami."
Miller cracked his knuckles, a terrifying grin spreading across his face. "Give me ten minutes."
I walked over to a heavy black duffel bag I had stored in the armory years ago. I unzipped it, pulling out my old tactical rig. The heavy Kevlar plates, the matte-black Sig Sauer P226, the custom karambit blade. I shed the flannel shirt and the stained denim jeans, replacing them with dark tactical clothing.
"Got it," Miller announced, his fingers flying across the keyboards. "Oh, Commander... these people are incredibly stupid."
I walked over to the screens.
"Marcus Vance's real estate firm is a front," Miller explained, pointing to a web of offshore routing numbers. "They’ve been laundering money for the Rojas Cartel out of Miami for three years. But Marcus got greedy. He’s been skimming off the top to fund his mother’s high-society lifestyle. He owes the cartel six million dollars, and the payment is due this Friday."
I looked at the calendar. Today was Tuesday.
"They were trying to extort me to pay off a cartel debt," I muttered, the puzzle pieces clicking together.
"What's the play, Boss?" Vance asked, leaning against the wall. "Do we just go in and clear the house?"
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"No," I said, my voice cold. "Death is too easy. I want them to lose their reputation, their freedom, and their minds. Miller, drain their accounts. Every single penny. Send the legitimate money to local orphanages. Send the cartel money directly to the DEA."
"With pleasure," Miller smirked.
