Chapter 10 - The Smoke Over Norfolk
The drive from Richmond down to Norfolk felt like driving through slow-motion molasses.
I left Arthur in charge of the regional headquarters with strict orders to lock down every digital server in the network, while I drove my battered pickup truck straight down Interstate 64 with Sophie resting safely in her car seat in the back, listening to an audio-book through my phone headphones.
My knuckles were white against the steering wheel. Marcus’s warning echoed in my mind with every mile marker that flashed past.
He went to your house in Norfolk two hours ago.
When I finally turned off the highway and onto the quiet, tree-lined residential street where my small home sat near the naval station, my foot instinctively slammed harder on the gas pedal.
From three blocks away, I could see the plume of thick, dark gray smoke rising lazily into the crisp Virginia afternoon sky.
It wasn't a chimney fire.
As I rounded the final corner, the reality hit me like a physical blow. The detached wooden garage behind my house was completely engulfed in roaring orange flames, two local fire engines parked haphazardly across the asphalt with their red and blue emergency lights strobing against the brick facade of my home.
Firefighters in heavy yellow gear were dragging thick canvas hoses across my front lawn, spraying torrents of water toward the blazing outbuilding where I kept my old Navy chest, my tools, and the spare server drives containing the backup logs of my entire corporate empire.
I pulled the truck up onto the curb, threw the transmission into park, and unbuckled my seatbelt in a single fluid motion.
"Daddy? Is that a fire truck?" Sophie asked from the backseat, her voice trembling slightly as she stared out the window at the smoke.
"Stay in the truck, sweetheart," I said, my voice unnervingly calm, though my heart was hammering a furious rhythm against my ribs. "Lock the doors. I'll be right back."
I hopped out of the truck, ignoring the dull throb in my knee, and broke into a steady jog across the lawn toward the lead firefighter, who was barking orders into a handheld radio.
Before I could reach him, a local police cruiser pulled up behind my truck, its siren chirping once before cutting out. The driver's door opened, and a county sheriff’s deputy stepped out, holding a manila envelope in his hand.
He walked straight toward me, his expression grim.
"Are you Daniel Mercer?" the deputy asked, flashing his badge.
"I am," I said, wiping a smudge of soot from my jacket sleeve. "What happened to my garage?"
The deputy didn't answer right away. He handed me the manila envelope, his eyes fixed on the roaring flames devouring my past.
"The fire department found a forced-entry sign on the side door," the deputy said quietly. "And they found this nailed to the workbench inside before the roof collapsed."
May you like
I ripped open the envelope. Inside was a single photograph showing my old Navy dress uniform hanging inside the burning garage, completely ruined by soot and fire—and scrawled across the bottom in bold red marker was a single sentence:
Your empire is built on paper, Daniel. Let's see how it burns.
