I Found $5,000 Hidden in My 10-Year-Old Daughter’s Jacket—Then She Whispered, “Everett Pays Me for Little Jobs.”

*CRACK!*

The rifle report tore through the thunder like a whip. A high-caliber round sheared through the branch of an apple tree three inches above my head, showering Brielle and me with wet leaves and splinters of bark.

Brielle screamed into my neck.

"Get down!" the agent roared, pulling a semi-automatic rifle from the front seat of his Tahoe and resting the barrel across the open driver's door.

*Pop-pop-pop!*

Three controlled rounds zipped back up the hill toward the terrace.

Through the rain, I saw the sparks fly off the limestone balustrade near Everett’s feet. The billionaire sociopath cursed, diving behind an ornamental marble pillar to avoid the return fire. With his ruined vision and the torrential downpour, he couldn't acquire a clean target.

"Get in! Back seat, now!" the agent yelled, waving us forward.

I reached the Tahoe, threw open the heavy rear door, shoved Brielle onto the leather bench, and dived in behind her, slamming the armored door shut just as another rifle round slammed harmlessly into the bulletproof glass of the rear quarter panel with a dull *thud*.

The agent jumped into the driver’s seat, slammed the transmission into drive, and stomped on the accelerator.

The massive tires gripped the wet gravel, launching the SUV forward. We fishtailed onto the paved county lane, leaving Vance Manor, its bloody secrets, and its monstrous owner behind in the storm.

Inside the cabin, the heavy thrum of the engine and the warmth of the heater brought an overwhelming, suffocating wave of relief.

Brielle was shaking violently, wrapped in an emergency wool blanket I pulled from the floorboards. I pulled her into my lap, rocking her back and forth, kissing the crown of her wet head over and over.

"You're safe, Brielle. You're safe now. Mommy's got you."

The agent looked at me in the rearview mirror. His gray eyes were grim, but there was a fierce, protective fire in them.

"I'm Special Agent Marcus Cole, Department of Justice Special Investigations," he said, flicking on a set of hidden blue strobe lights beneath the radiator grille. "I should have pulled you and the girl out two months ago, Elena. I'm sorry. We needed the Zurich keys. Without them, Vance’s network would have survived even if we arrested him."

"Where is David?" I demanded, my voice raw, cracked, and trembling with an agony that had burned for four long years. "Tell me where my husband is, Marcus! Tell me right now!"

Marcus reached into his pocket and tossed a military-grade satellite tablet into the passenger seat. On the screen was a live video feed from an encrypted tactical drone circling over a private compound on Prudence Island, Rhode Island.

"Federal marshals raided the facility forty-five minutes ago, the moment you confirmed the biometric codes on that watch," Marcus said softly. "The guards surrendered without a shot. David is alive, Elena. He’s malnourished, he’s weak, but he’s breathing. He’s currently on an emergency medical transport flight inbound to Walter Reed Military Medical Center."

A sob tore out of my chest—a sound born of pure, unadulterated relief, grief, and triumph.

Brielle looked up at me, her blue eyes wide through her wet bangs. "Mommy? Daddy is alive? Really alive?"

"Yes, baby," I wept, kissing her forehead. "Daddy is waiting for us. We're going to see him."

Suddenly, Marcus’s tactical radio crackled with frantic static.

*"Unit Four to Cole! Unit Four to Cole! Do you copy?!"*

Marcus grabbed the mic. "Cole here. I have the assets. We are en route to the rendezvous point."

*"Cole, Vance isn't staying at the estate! He bypassed the gate blockade! He took the private helicopter from the lower helipad! The chopper took off two minutes ago heading northeast—straight toward your vector!"*

Marcus cursed, looking up through the windshield into the storm-blackened sky.

Above the roar of the rain and the engine, a low, thudding vibration began to rattle the frame of the SUV.

*Thump-thump-thump-thump.*

The sound of twin turbine rotors descending through the clouds.

"He's not trying to escape the country," Marcus said, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel as he checked his side mirrors. "He knows his empire is dead. He knows he's spending the rest of his life in ADX Florence. He doesn't care about running anymore."

Marcus looked back at me in the mirror, his face stark and terrifyingly pale.