Chapter 9 - Ambush at the Gated Perimeter
Before heading to the courthouse, I needed to retrieve critical legal archives, birth certificates, and my hard-token security keys from my suburban house. Even though the locks had been changed and two armed guards were stationed at the driveway, stepping back onto the property felt like walking through the scene of a brutal crime.
The air inside the house was still thick with the sickening scent of stale beer, burnt grease, and cheap perfume left behind by Mason's entourage. The kitchen sink was still stained where Amy had stood for hours, weeping and pleading for someone to let her take Frederick to the emergency room.
"Mr. Vance," one of the private security officers, a retired Marine named Briggs, stepped through the shattered sliding glass door. "Locksmith finished rekeying the master suite. The house is locked down. But you’ve got a visitor at the gate."
I walked toward the front entryway and checked the high-definition perimeter monitors. Parked right against the iron gate was a sleek black Mercedes sedan. Standing outside the vehicle, pacing with an agitated expression, was Aunt Clara—Dave’s sister and Evelyn’s longtime confidante.
"Let her in to the courtyard," I instructed Briggs. "Do not let her cross the threshold."
I stepped out onto the wide stone porch, the cold autumn wind whipping against my trench coat. Clara marched up the driveway, her designer sunglasses pushed onto her head, her face contorted in theatrical indignation.
"Connor!" she shrieked, pointing an acrylic fingernail at my chest. "Have you completely lost your mind? Your mother is sitting in a cold holding cell next to common felons! Mason is having panic attacks! How could you do this to your own flesh and blood?"
"You have thirty seconds to leave this property, Clara," I said, my voice dead and devoid of warmth.
"We are family!" she yelled, her voice echoing down the quiet suburban cul-de-sac. "Evelyn made one mistake! She was trying to protect Mason from dangerous people! You have millions, Connor! You live in this palace while your brother was about to have his kneecaps broken, and you wouldn't lift a finger to help him!"
"They held my sick baby hostage," I said, stepping forward until Clara reflexively took a step back, intimidated by the sheer fury radiating off me. "They stood between my wife and our son's survival. They stole from my company. And your brother Dave is currently a fugitive on the run from federal law enforcement."
Clara’s face blanched at the mention of Dave and the FBI. Her theatrical rage vanished, replaced by genuine panic.
"Dave... Dave didn't tell me everything," she stammered, pulling her phone from her purse. "He just said you were cutting everyone off... he told me to come here and talk sense into you before—"
"Before what, Clara?" I demanded, catching her wrist with lightning speed. "Before what?"
Suddenly, the rumble of a heavy diesel engine echoed from the corner of the street. An unmarked, tinted flatbed tow truck swung around the bend, accelerating straight toward our open driveway.
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"Down!" Briggs roared, drawing his weapon as the heavy truck smashed directly into Clara's parked Mercedes, shoving it violently into the stone gate pillars in a deafening crash of metal and shattered glass.
***
