Chapter 4 - The Hunt Begins
My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird. Instinct took over before fear could paralyze me. I ducked behind the heavy oak desk in the study, clutching my bag tightly to my chest.
“Clear the ground floor!” a voice called out from the hallway. It was harsh, low, with a thick, Eastern European accent. “Find the wife! She has the bag!”
Footsteps—heavy, deliberate, tactical boots—clattered against the marble foyer. They weren't common burglars. These were professionals. They had moved into the house within seconds of breaking the back patio glass, knowing exactly where Daniel would be.
I looked around the study frantically. There was no exit other than the main door leading back into the hallway, which was already cut off. The window behind the desk faced the side driveway, but it was locked with a heavy iron latch, and breaking it would broadcast my location instantly.
“In here!” another voice barked from the kitchen. “Vance is down. He’s breathing, but out cold. Check the office!”
Heavy footsteps approached the study door. I had seconds.
I slid quietly underneath the knee-well of the massive oak desk, pulling the leather chair in tightly to block the view. I held my breath, pressing my hand firmly over my nose and mouth to prevent even the quietest gasp from escaping.
The heavy wooden door of the study swung open. A pair of dark tactical boots entered my field of vision through the small gap beneath the desk structure.
The man moved slowly, methodically. I could hear the faint rustle of heavy fabric and the subtle, terrifying metallic click of a silenced firearm being adjusted. He moved toward the bookshelf. I saw his boots pause right in front of the open safe.
“The safe is open!” he called out to his partner in the hall. “It’s empty! She took the drives!”
“Find her!” the leader yelled back from the hallway. “She couldn't have gone out the front. Search the rooms!”
The man in the study cursed in a foreign language and turned around. His boots stepped directly toward the desk. He was standing less than two feet from where I was squeezed into the dark hollow under the wood. I closed my eyes, my blood running ice-cold, praying my heartbeat wasn't loud enough to give me away.
He reached out, his hand sweeping across the desktop above my head, knocking over a brass lamp and scattering papers to see if anything was hidden beneath them. Then, he grabbed the back of the heavy leather chair—the only thing obscuring his view of me—and pulled it back.
BZZZZZZZZT!
The sudden, piercing screech of the house security system’s main panic alarm shattered the silence, echoing through every room at 110 decibels.
The man startled, reflexively swinging his weapon toward the hallway. Daniel had somehow regained consciousness in the kitchen and tripped the silent panic bar under the island, triggering the high-decibel intrusion siren that was directly linked to the local police department.
“Police response in three minutes!” the leader shouted from the foyer, his voice barely audible over the deafening siren. “We go! Now!”
The man in the study didn't hesitate. He turned on his heel and rushed out of the room, his boots pounding against the floor as the intruders made their rapid exit through the shattered back glass.
I stayed under the desk for five long seconds, waiting until the sound of their footsteps faded completely and was replaced by the roaring screech of an engine peeling out in the driveway outside.
I crawled out from under the desk, my legs shaking so violently I could barely stand. I gripped my tote bag—the heavy metal weight of the hard drives pressing against my side—and hurried toward the kitchen.
Daniel was slumped against the base of the marble island, holding the side of his head. Blood trickled down his temple from a deep cut above his eye where he had been struck with the butt of a gun.
“Claire...” he groaned, looking up at me with glassy, unfocused eyes. “Did they... did they get you?”
“No,” I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. “I have the drives.”
In the distance, the faint, wailing sound of approaching police sirens echoed through the suburban neighborhood.
Daniel leaned his head back against the cabinet, breathing heavily. “The police... good. Tell them... tell them we were robbed.”
I stood over him, looking at the blood on his face, then at my tote bag, then out the broken glass doors toward the street.
If I stayed here and gave these drives to the responding local police patrol officers, the story would hit the local precinct log within an hour. Vance & Sterling’s legal team—and whoever was controlling those men in tactical boots—would know the drives were in evidence before the night was over. The local police weren't equipped to deal with high-level international financial crimes or whistleblowers; the chain of custody would be compromised, and Daniel’s corporate handles would suppress it.
Furthermore, if I was listed as a witness in a domestic robbery report, I would be tied to this location, unable to move while Arthur Pendelton built our legal fortress.
“Claire?” Daniel looked at me, realizing I hadn't moved to help him up. “What are you doing? Help me!”
“The police are here to help you, Daniel,” I said, stepping back from him toward the garage side-door.
“Where are you going?!” he panicked, trying to pull himself up using the island counter, but slipping back down. “You can’t leave me here! They know you have the drives! They’ll hunt you down!”
“They don't know who I am or where I’m going,” I said, pulling my car keys from my pocket. “You told them your wife was dead, remember? As far as the world is concerned, I’m just a ghost.”
“Claire! Don't do this!” he screamed, his voice cracking with desperation as the red and blue lights of the first police cruiser flashed across the kitchen windows. “Claire!”
I didn't look back. I slipped through the garage door, got into my car, opened the automatic garage door, and pulled out onto the street just as two police cars pulled up in front of the house with their sirens blaring.
I turned the opposite way, driving carefully, adhering strictly to the speed limit.
My hands gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles were white. The adrenaline was slowly fading, leaving behind a cold, terrifying reality: I was on the run, carrying evidence that could destroy a billion-dollar international financial ring and put my cheating husband in federal prison for the rest of his life.
I pulled into a gas station three miles away, pulled out a prepaid burner phone I had bought at a convenience store earlier that morning, and dialed Arthur Pendelton’s private emergency line.
“Pendelton,” he answered on the second ring.
“Arthur, it’s Claire,” I said, watching the street through my rearview mirror. “I have the drives. And Daniel’s partners just tried to kill us.”
There was a brief pause on the line, followed by the quiet rustle of papers. When Arthur spoke again, his tone had shifted from a civil attorney to a battle-tested strategist.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Is Daniel dead?”
“No. The police just arrived at the house. He’s with them.”
“Good,” Arthur said coldly. “Then he is secure for the moment. Listen to me very carefully, Claire. Do not go to your hotel. Do not go to any property associated with your name or your business. Drive straight to the address I am sending to your phone now. It’s a secure safe house owned by my firm’s private security arm.”
“What about the drives?” I asked.
“I am contacting the Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Financial Crimes Division right now,” Arthur said. “We are setting up an emergency proffer session for tomorrow morning. You are going to hand over those drives directly to the federal government—and in return, we are going to secure full immunity for you, total asset freezing of Daniel’s holdings, and a protective custody warrant.”
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“And Daniel?” I asked.
“Daniel is about to learn what happens when a small fish plays in a deep ocean,” Arthur replied. “Get to the safe house, Claire. Lock the doors. The storm is here.”
