Chapter 6 - The Digital Trap
The heavy oak front door clicked shut, sealing out the icy Oklahoma wind and the fading sound of the sedan's screeching tires. Inside the hallway, the air felt thick with adrenaline and the lingering residue of fear.
I kept my arms wrapped tightly around Tessa and little Miles, drawing them both into my chest until I could feel their heartbeats steadying against mine. Tessa buried her face in the shoulder of my flannel shirt, her small frame still trembling from the shock of the evening's violent escalation.
"Go back inside with your mom, Tesse," I murmured softly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her dark hair. "Lock the door to the room and stay put. I need to make a phone call."
Tessa looked up at me, her wide, frightened eyes searching my face for reassurance. "Are they coming back, Dad?"
"No," I said, putting absolute, unshakeable certainty into my voice. "They aren't coming back here. Not tonight, and not ever again. I promise you."
She nodded slowly, wiping a stray tear from her cheek with the back of her sleeve, and took her mother’s trembling hand. Sarah didn't look me in the eye. Her face was deathly pale, her lower lip bitten raw as she ushered our daughter back down the hallway, closing the door behind them with a soft, final click.
Once I was alone in the entryway, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed Marcus Vance’s direct line. It rang twice before he picked up.
"Grant? I saw a dark sedan blow past my patrol sector near Elm Street. Was that—?"
"That was them," I interrupted, my voice sharp and clipped. "Two men. Arthur and an associate. They came right to my front porch looking for equity transfer papers and threatening my daughter."
A sharp curse echoed through the phone line. "Damn it, Grant. Are you and the kids okay?"
"We're fine. I threw them off the property," I replied coldly, pacing slowly across the hardwood floor. "Marcus, this has gone way past a local domestic dispute or a white-collar paper trail. These people know where I live, they know my kids' names, and they are desperate because federal auditors are closing in on Richard Vance."
"If they came to your house tonight, they’re panicking," Marcus said, his tone turning dead serious. "Listen to me, Grant. You can't just wait around for them to try another move. Richard Vance operates out of a commercial warehousing district off Route 66. That’s where his team coordinates the cash drops and digital transfers."
"Give me the address," I demanded.
"Grant, what are you planning? You're a dog trainer, not a tactical operator. Let the feds handle—"
"The feds aren't sitting on my front porch threatening my nine-year-old daughter, Marcus," I cut him off, the raw fury rising in my throat. "Give me the address, or I'll find it myself through every client contact I have in this county."
There was a long, heavy pause on the line. I could hear Marcus sigh heavily, weighing his career against the safety of an old friend's family.
"Fine," Marcus muttered finally. "Old freight warehouse, 412 Industrial Road, unit C. But Grant? Don't go kicking doors down alone. Call me the second you're outside. I'm off shift in twenty minutes, and I'll meet you down there."
"Thanks, Marcus," I said, and hung up before he could argue further.
I walked over to the entryway console, picked up the burner phone Sarah had left behind, and slipped it into my jacket pocket. Then I walked out to my detached garage workshop, unlocked the heavy steel security cabinet, and pulled out my heavy-duty work gear—including the tactical LED flashlight and a sturdy set of tracking leashes that could double as restraints if things went sideways.
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Fifteen minutes later, my black pickup truck roared to life in the driveway, cutting through the midnight snow as I headed straight into the industrial heart of Edmond.
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