Chapter 4 - THE FALLOUT IN OHIOTHE FALLOUT IN OHIO
While the Pentagon hummed with military precision, the town of Oak Creek, Ohio, was experiencing an absolute social meltdown.
By Tuesday morning, the video of Derek handcuffing me to the picnic table—filmed by a terrified teenager who had smuggled his phone out of the backyard—had found its way onto TikTok and X (formerly Twitter). Within hours, it went viral under the blistering hashtag #PicnicTableGeneral.
Internet sleuths, operating with the terrifying speed of modern digital mobs, had already doxed Derek’s real estate office, his home address, and his local country club membership. By noon, his firm’s Yelp page was flooded with one-star reviews calling him a disgrace to the uniform and demanding his immediate termination.
My phone, which I had left on a secure secondary receiver, buzzed incessantly with text messages from aunts, uncles, and second cousins I hadn't spoken to since childhood.
Uncle George: “Harper, please, you have to understand, Derek is an idiot, he didn't know—” Aunt Linda: “We are so proud of you, honey! Can you get tickets for the White House tour?” My Mother: “Please call your mother. The reporters are camped outside the driveway. They’re asking about your father’s taxes.”
I stared at that last text message for a long, quiet moment.
My father’s taxes.
For thirty years, my father had run a small, moderately successful construction supply business. He had always bragged about being a self-made man, looking down on anyone who took government assistance or struggled to pay their bills. Yet, as I recalled from old family arguments, he had a peculiar habit of boasting about how little he paid to the IRS every year.
I tapped my comms device and patched through to military intelligence analyst Specialist Vance.
“Specialist Vance.”
“General! What do you need, ma’am?”
“Run a discreet, automated financial and tax compliance audit on Frank Carter, construction supply owner in Oak Creek, Ohio. Cross-reference municipal contracts with federal grants over the last fifteen years.”
“On it, General. Give me ten minutes.”
May you like
True to form, at nine minutes and forty seconds, my secure terminal chimed. A detailed PDF flashed across my screen, complete with color-coded discrepancies, undeclared offshore accounts routed through shell companies in the Caymans, and a neat paper trail pointing directly to municipal bid-rigging.
“Well, well, well,” I murmured, leaning back in my leather chair. “Looks like Dad wasn’t just a patriot on the Fourth of July. He was a federal tax evader.”
