Chapter 7 - The Prodigal’s Return
I shoved Toby gently behind me, my left hand sliding into my coat pocket to wrap my fingers securely around the checkered wooden grip of the Colt .45.
"You're supposed to be dead, Richard," I said, my voice completely steady, cutting through the damp air of the boathouse like a razor blade. "Swiss Alps, winter storm, body never recovered. Very convenient for a man who embezzled four million dollars from the shipping trust before vanishing into the wind."
Richard chuckled, a harsh, grating sound that bounced off the wooden rafters.
"Death is such an ugly word, cousin. Let's call it a strategic relocation," Richard said, stopping ten feet away, swinging the lead pipe lazily against his thigh. Thud. Thud. Thud. "Marlene needed a patsy to manage the offshore accounts, and I needed a new identity in Zurich. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Until you started poking your grease-stained fingers into ledgers you had no business reading."
"You killed Clara," I stated, the words tasting like copper and ash in my mouth.
Richard’s smile widened, stretching uncomfortably across his scarred cheek.
"Clara was... inquisitive," Richard sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. "She found the duplicate ledger in the study safe. She threatened to go to the federal prosecutor unless Marlene and my mother returned the embezzled funds to the primary trust. What was a desperate family to do? Accidents happen on the water all the time, Ethan. A little blow to the back of the head with an oar, a moonless night, and Lake Lanier takes care of the rest."
Every drop of blood in my body turned to liquid nitrogen. The rage that had been simmering inside me for two years instantly boiled over, turning into a cold, blinding clarity.
"You bastard," I whispered.
I drew the Colt .45 from my pocket, leveling the heavy barrel directly at Richard’s chest with absolute, unyielding precision.
Richard didn't flinch. He didn't drop his lead pipe. Instead, he let out a low, mocking laugh and gestured with his left hand toward the darkened rafters above us.
"Go ahead. Shoot me," Richard taunted, his eyes gleaming with psychotic delight. "And while you're at it, say goodbye to your little police friend."
From the shadows above the rafters, two laser sights snapped on, casting twin crimson dots directly onto my chest.
"Drop the piece, Ethan, or the kid gets a 9mm slug right between the eyes," a gruff voice called down from the darkness.
I looked back. Two hired mercenaries from a private security contractor known as Blackthorn Tactical—the same outfit Gerald Vance used for dirty work—were peering down from the loft, their assault rifles leveled squarely at terrified young Toby.
My finger tightened on the trigger of the Colt. I could put a bullet through Richard’s heart before his mercenaries could squeeze their triggers. But Toby would die. An innocent kid whose only crime was having a father who wore a badge in a corrupted county.
Slowly, deliberately, I lowered the barrel of the gun.
"Smart boy," Richard sneered, stepping closer and reaching out to snatch the pistol from my hand. He tucked it into the waistband of his trousers, laughing out loud. "You always were too sentimental, Ethan. That's why you don't belong in this family. You care about people. We care about assets."
Before Richard could swing his lead pipe, the wooden double doors of the boathouse behind him didn't just open—they exploded outward in a shower of splintered wood and flying iron.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Flashbang grenades detonated with blinding white intensity and deafening concussive force, filling the entire boathouse with thick, choking smoke.
"FBI! FEDERAL AGENTS! DOWN ON THE GROUND! NOW!" roared a dozen voices through tactical megaphones.
Chaos erupted in a fraction of a second. Richard shrieked, swinging his lead pipe blindly into the smoke, but a massive tactical shield slammed into his ribs with bone-crushing force, folding him over the wooden crates like a cheap lawn chair.
From the loft above, the two mercenaries tried to aim their rifles, but a volley of non-lethal beanbag rounds from federal sniper teams knocked them off the rafters into the water below with loud, soggy splashes.
I grabbed Toby by the collar, dragging him down behind a heavy industrial generator just as the gunfire and shouting echoed off the lake water.
When the smoke finally cleared three minutes later, Special Agent Sarah Vance stepped through the splintered doorway, her tactical helmet strapped tight, an M4 carbine held at the ready. She looked down at Richard Jr., who was currently handcuffed face-down in the mud by two federal agents, groaning in agony.
Agent Vance walked over to me, extending a hand to help me up.
"Took you long enough, Agent Vance," I said, taking her hand and dusting off my jacket.
"We had to wait for tactical backup to secure the perimeter," she replied coolly, nodding toward the handcuffs on Richard. "Though I must say, drawing out a fugitive presumed dead for fifteen years saved us six months of international paperwork."
I looked down at Richard as federal agents hoisted him to his feet. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the dock, glaring at me with eyes full of pure, unadulterated venom.
"You haven't won, Ethan!" Richard screamed as they dragged him toward the waiting transport boat. "The board still owns the shipping lanes! The ports are locked! Without shipping logistics, your timber mills go bankrupt by Tuesday!"
I watched him go, a slow, cold smile spreading across my face.
"Richard," I called out softly.
May you like
He stopped, twisting around to glare at me.
"You forgot one minor detail," I said. "I never needed their shipping lanes."
