Chapter 5 - THE HUNT BEGINS
The threat wasn't theoretical anymore. Arthur Wilson had escalated this from a bitter family dispute into a high-stakes war for survival, and he was using his vast wealth to hire mercenaries.
We didn't head back to my apartment. In military strategy, when your location is compromised, you establish a tactical safehouse.
Twenty minutes later, Jessica and I arrived at an unmarked warehouse in the industrial district near the city docks. The facility belonged to Vanguard Security Solution, a veteran-owned private defense firm run by my former Platoon Commander, retired Lieutenant Colonel Thomas "Mac" Mackenzie.
The heavy steel doors rolled up, and Mac was standing there—a broad-shouldered man with peppered gray hair, a thick beard, and eyes that had seen every combat zone on the map.
"Katie," Mac grunted, extending a massive hand to give me a warm, firm shake. "I saw the news. Margaret Wilson is lucky she did that in a private room. If any of the guys from the 101st Airborne had been there, she’d be drinking her food through a straw."
"Good to see you, Mac," I said, stepping inside as the heavy steel doors rolled shut behind us. "We have a situation."
"I know," Mac said, walking us toward a central tactical hub filled with surveillance monitors and encrypted communication arrays. "My contacts in Houston confirmed it thirty minutes ago. Arthur Wilson retained Blackwood Executive Protection. They aren't just guards, Katie. They’re ex-mercenaries who got kicked out of corporate security for operating outside the law."
"How many?" Jessica asked, checking her sidearm.
"A team of four," Mac replied, tapping a key on the terminal. Photos of four men popped up on the screens. "Led by a guy named Viktor Vance. Ex-Spetsnaz, disgraced private contractor. He specializes in intimidation, digital surveillance, and staged 'accidents'."
"They won't risk shooting a decorated Army officer in broad daylight," I analyzed calmly, looking at Vance's dossier. "It would bring the FBI down on their heads instantly. They’ll target my evidence. They want the encrypted hard drives containing the Wilson Logistics fraud data."
"Where are the drives?" Mac asked.
"Stored in a secure off-grid server box at my family's old ranch in San Antonio," I answered. "My late father built an underground storm shelter there. It’s powered by solar generators and completely disconnected from the internet."
"Then that’s where Vance is heading right now," Mac said firmly. "They’ll be monitoring your phone’s GPS and tracking your F-150."
I smiled faintly. "Then let's give them something to track."
We set the trap into motion immediately.
Jessica took my Ford F-150, wearing a hat and jacket similar to mine, driving it south down the main interstate toward San Antonio—acting as a loud, obvious decoy to draw Blackwood’s digital surveillance team.
Meanwhile, Mac and I boarded an unmarked, non-registered military surplus chopper from a private airfield ten miles outside the city limits.
As the helicopter lifted off into the stormy night sky, heading straight toward the hills of San Antonio, I looked down at the glittering city lights below.
The Wilsons thought money bought absolute power. They thought legal threats and hired muscle could intimidate someone who had spent years operating in hostile territory under mortar fire. They didn't understand the fundamental rule of warfare: never give an enemy who has nothing left to lose a clear target.
My phone buzzed one last time before I switched it to airplane mode. It was a news alert popup:
BREAKING NEWS: U.S. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE ANNOUNCES FORMAL INVESTIGATION INTO WILSON GLOBAL LOGISTICS CONTRACTS.
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The dominoes were starting to fall. But as the chopper cut through the heavy rain clouds, I knew the hardest part of the battle was waiting for me at the ranch.
Viktor Vance and his team weren't coming to negotiate. And neither was I.
