Chapter 4 - Flight of Reckoning
Chicago O'Hare was an ocean of chaotic noise, boarding announcements, and the thrum of thousands of travelers rushing to catch connections.
Marcus didn't see any of it.
He moved through Terminal 1 like an artillery shell. He had abandoned his luggage at the gate, carrying nothing but his phone, his passport, and his wallet. His black wool coat trailed behind him, his tie loosened, his eyes burning with a singular, lethal intent.
His phone was pressed to his ear.
“Vance,” a gravelly, sharp voice answered on the second ring. Donald Vance, senior partner at Vance, Sterling & Croft, did not waste time with pleasantries.
“Donald,” Marcus said, his voice flat, low, and devoid of tremor. “Are you at your desk?”
“I’m in my car, running sixty over the speed limit down Mopac,” Donald replied. The sound of a roaring V8 engine hummed in the background. “I saw the video Sarah sent. Marcus... God almighty. Your mother has lost her mind.”
“Did you file the emergency injunction?”
“Filed, signed, and stamped by Judge Morrison twenty minutes ago,” Donald said grimly. “I invoked immediate protective custody under the Vulnerable Adult Abuse Act. The judge signed an ex parte emergency removal order and a temporary restraining order barring Phyllis from being within five hundred yards of Clara. I’ve got two Travis County sheriff deputies meeting me at the corner of Westlake Drive in fifteen minutes.”
“Tell them to hold their perimeter,” Marcus ordered.
There was a pause on the line. “Marcus, Clara is in active danger. If she has compartment syndrome, she could lose tissue or worse. Every minute counts.”
“I’m forty minutes out,” Marcus said.
“What are you talking about? You’re in Illinois!”
“I chartered an Embraer Phenom 300 out of Signature Flight Support at O'Hare twenty-five minutes ago,” Marcus said, stepping through an unmarked security exit using his executive clearance. “The twin Pratt & Whitney engines push five hundred knots. The flight crew is spinning the turbines right now on runway 10-Left. Austin ATC has granted direct routing. I will be on the tarmac at Austin-Bergstrom by four-fifteen. You do not breach that house without me, Donald. Do you hear me?”
Donald exhaled slowly. “Marcus... what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to end it,” Marcus said. “All of it. Twelve years of lies. Twelve years of theft. Donald, the rosewood box is on her dining room credenza.”
The line went completely dead for four full seconds.
“The box?” Donald’s voice dropped an octave, suddenly stripped of all legal detachment. “Arthur’s box? The one she claimed went up in flames the night your father died?”
“It was sitting three feet behind her while she kicked my wife,” Marcus said, his jaw clenching so hard a molar cracked. “She has it. And Clara found it before the crash. Donald, look into the delivery truck driver who hit Clara’s Uber last Wednesday. Pull the corporate registration on that vehicle. Pull the LLC.”
“I’m already ahead of you,” Donald said, his tone turning deadly dark. “When Sarah texted me the video, I had my forensic investigator run the truck’s plates from the police report. The truck belongs to Lone Star Logistics. Lone Star Logistics is a shell corporation registered in Delaware.”
“Who owns the shell, Donald?”
“A trust entity,” Donald answered slowly. “Managed by your brother, Gregory Vance. Funded entirely by distributions from your mother’s discretionary account.”
Marcus stopped in his tracks right outside the private aviation terminal.
The cold Midwestern air hit his face, but inside his veins, liquid fire was roaring.
It wasn't an accident.
It had never been an accident.
Clara had found the evidence that Phyllis had poisoned Arthur Vance to retain control of the multi-million-dollar estate. Phyllis had discovered Clara’s discovery. And rather than face an audit that would strip her of her status, her fortune, and her freedom, Phyllis had orchestrated a hit. When Clara survived, Phyllis had brought her into her own home under the guise of mercy—to finish breaking her, to seize the evidence, and to force her into silence before Marcus ever returned from Chicago.
“Marcus?” Donald’s voice came through the receiver, heavy with concern. “Are you there?”
“Keep the deputies at the gate,” Marcus whispered, his voice dangerously soft. “Cut the power to the estate’s security gates so she can’t lock herself in. Have the medical transport ready.”
“And Phyllis?”
Marcus looked toward the runway, where the sleek black Phenom 300 sat waiting, its jet engines screaming into life, ready to tear the sky open.
May you like
“Tell the sheriff to bring two sets of handcuffs,” Marcus said. “One for my mother. And one for my brother.”
***
