Chapter 7 - THE RECKONING
Thomas Vance reacted instantly, his hand darting toward the shoulder holster beneath his leather jacket.
THWACK.
Marcus fired a single silenced round from his MP5. The bullet caught Thomas directly in his right shoulder, throwing him backward onto the concrete floor, his handgun clattering into the darkness beneath a forklift.
The two mercenaries raised their rifles, but Detective Vance and the two tactical officers stepped out from the shadows, their red laser sights targeting the center of both men's chests.
"Drop them!" Detective Vance roared. "Federal officers! Drop your weapons or you die right here!"
The two mercenaries looked at the red dots glowing on their chest vests, looked at Thomas bleeding on the floor, and slowly raised their hands, dropping their rifles onto the concrete with heavy metallic thuds.
Arthur didn't move.
He sat frozen in his canvas chair, his crystal tumbler suspended halfway to his mouth, his eyes wide with absolute, horrifying disbelief.
"Julian..." Arthur whispered, the color draining from his face until he looked like a corpse in a camel-hair coat.
I walked forward slowly, my boots clicking against the concrete floor, until I stood four feet away from my uncle.
"Six years, Arthur," I said, my voice strangely quiet, calm, and terrifyingly free of anger. "Six years I sat in that house, drinking myself to sleep, believing my wife was burned to ash and my son was dead in the woods."
Arthur swallowed hard. He slowly set his glass down on the folding table beside his chair, his hands shaking so violently that the liquor spilled over the rim.
"Julian... listen to me," Arthur stammered, his polished corporate composure completely disintegrating into panic. "It... it wasn't what you think. Thomas... Thomas acted on his own! He dragged me into this! I was trying to protect the company! I was trying to protect you!"
"Protect me?" I laughed—a short, dark laugh that carried no humor. "You hired five hitmen to slaughter my son in his bed three hours ago, Arthur."
"He isn't your son!" Arthur shrieked, his voice turning high-pitched and hysterical as he pointed a trembling finger toward the river entrance. "That boy is a ghost! He's a defective, traumatized bastard who doesn't even remember your name! He was supposed to stay buried!"
I stepped forward, grabbed Arthur by the lapels of his camel-hair coat, and yanked him out of his chair, pulling his face three inches from mine.
"His name is Lucas Alexander Whitaker," I growled into his ear. "And he remembered my face tonight."
"Julian! Don't do it!" Detective Vance called out from behind me, keeping his weapon trained on the mercenaries. "He's going to spend the rest of his life in maximum security, Julian! Don't ruin your life for him!"
I stared into my uncle's terrified blue eyes. I saw the weakness, the greed, and the smallness of the man who had torn my life apart for paper currency and corporate prestige.
I slowly let go of his lapels.
Arthur collapsed back onto his knees on the cold concrete floor, weeping pathetically, clutching his knees like a child.
"Get him out of my sight," I said quietly, turning my back on him.
Marcus stepped forward, pulling a pair of heavy steel handcuffs from his belt, snapping them around Arthur's wrists with a harsh, double-click sound.
As two uniformed officers dragged Arthur toward the waiting transport van, Detective Vance walked over to Thomas Vance, kicking his cousin's shoulder lightly with his boot.
"You disgraced our family name, Thomas," Detective Vance said coldly. "And you're going to give the District Attorney every single detail of County Road 9 if you want to see the light of day before you're eighty years old."
I walked out of the dark warehouse and stepped onto the riverbank.
The yellow fog was beginning to lift over the Calumet River. In the far east, over the dark waters of Lake Michigan, a pale gold line of morning light broke through the grey clouds.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
I pulled it out and looked at the screen. It was a video call from Dr. Reed at the estate.
I answered it, holding the phone up to my face.
The screen lit up, showing the warm, brightly lit kitchen of the cottage.
Sitting at the wooden breakfast table was Lucas. He was wearing a fresh grey sweater, eating a plate of warm waffles Claire had made for him. Beside him sat little Sophie, laughing as she tried to stack strawberries on top of her fork.
When Lucas saw my face on the screen, he stopped eating.
He picked up the phone from Dr. Reed's hand and held it close to his face.
May you like
"Dad?" Lucas asked quietly, his gray-green eyes shining on the screen.
"I'm here, son," I said, a deep, warm tear spilling down my cheek, catching the first golden rays of the morning sun. "I'm coming home."
