Chapter 25 - The Ghost of Thomas Vance
"Federal agents! Don't move!"
The flash-bang detonated with a blinding flash and an ear-splitting concussion, tearing the curtains from their rods and filling the room with chemical smoke.
I cleared the threshold low, my red-dot sight locking onto the center mass of the man standing behind the heavy mahogany desk.
He was coughing violently, clawing at his watering eyes, a silver SIG Sauer pistol dangling loosely in his right hand.
"Drop it!" I screamed, the sound tearing raw from my throat. "Drop the weapon, Thomas!"
The man froze. He lowered his hands slowly, blinking through the tears and smoke, until his eyes locked onto mine.
My breath stopped.
Looking at him was like looking into a distorted mirror of my father. The same aquiline nose, the same slate-gray eyes, the same graying hair at the temples. But where my father’s face had been hollowed out by grief and surrender, Thomas Vance’s face was twisted into a sneer of pure, venomous arrogance.
He looked at my uniform, looked at the CID tactical patch on my shoulder, and let out a dry, rasping laugh as he dropped the pistol onto the blotter with a heavy thud.
"Well, well," Thomas whispered, raising his hands slowly. "The little wounded soldier made it across the Atlantic. Claire told me she broke your ribs. Did she not kick you hard enough to keep you in bed, Hannah?"
Hayes moved forward with the speed of a striking cobra, slamming Thomas face-first onto the desk. He wrenched the man's arms behind his back, the zip-ties biting brutally into his wrists with a loud *zip-zip*.
"You're done, Vance," Hayes growled into his ear. "We've got the server, we've got the transit manifests, and we've got Denise singing like a canary in a federal cell."
Thomas didn't flinch. Even with his cheek pressed hard against the wood, he kept his eyes locked on me, grinning.
"Denise doesn't know anything," Thomas said softly, his voice dripping with venom. "Denise is an idiot who thought a few million dollars in Cayman accounts would buy her a seat at the high table. She thought getting rid of your mother was just about taking her jewelry and her real estate."
The room seemed to drop ten degrees.
I stepped closer until the muzzle of my carbine was hovering four inches from his face.
"What did you say about my mother?" I asked, my voice deadly quiet.
"Your mother didn't die of cardiac arrest, Hannah," Thomas sneered, blood from a split lip smearing against the desk. "She found out I was funneling the Patriot radar guidance updates through an offshore shell company. She sat at this very desk, threatening to go to the Inspector General. She thought family loyalty meant something."
He laughed again—a sound that made my skin crawl.
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"Your father knew," Thomas whispered. "He knew what I had to do to protect the family name. That’s why he sat there like a dog while Denise and Claire treated you like trash. He wasn't paralyzed by drugs, little girl. He was paralyzed by guilt."
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