Chapter 3: The House of God
We drove to First Baptist in Dominic’s Tahoe, running slightly above the speed limit but keeping the sirens off. The Raleigh sky had turned a bruising shade of purple, threatening one of those sudden, violent afternoon thunderstorms that wash the pollen off the streets and turn the gutters into rivers.
Delilah sat in the passenger seat. I sat in the back. Nobody spoke. The tension in the car was a physical thing, thick and heavy.
Tristan Hale was behind bars, but his poison was still leaking into the groundwater of our lives. A ledger full of corrupt officials. A list of people who owed Tristan favors, or feared his wrath. If Tristan’s fixer got his hands on that ledger, Tristan could blackmail his way out of a conviction. He could trade the ledger to a corrupt judge for a mistrial. He could use it to destroy Dominic’s career.
He could win. Again.
Dominic pulled into the church parking lot. It was nearly empty. A few cars belonged to the administrative staff. The massive brick facade of the church looked imposing against the darkening sky.
“Stay in the car,” Dominic told Delilah and me.
“Not a chance in hell,” Delilah said, unbuckling her seatbelt.
Dominic didn’t argue. He knew better. He reached under his seat and pulled out his service weapon, checking the magazine before sliding it into his holster. He threw his FBI windbreaker on.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered.
We walked through the heavy wooden side doors. The church was silent, smelling of lemon polish and old paper. We found Pastor Webb in his small office down the hall, going over Sunday’s sermon. He looked up, startled by the three of us filling his doorway.
“Gavin? Delilah? Dominic... is everything alright?”
“Gerald,” I said, keeping my voice level so I didn't scare the man. “We need to access the donation storage room. Right now.”
Pastor Webb stood up, adjusting his glasses. “The basement storage? It’s mostly winter coats and old items we haven't shipped to the shelter yet. What are you looking for?”
“A vintage leather briefcase,” Delilah said. “I dropped it off six months ago.”
Webb’s brow furrowed. “I remember that donation, Delilah. Very generous. But we haven't cleared that room since before the holidays. It should still be down there. Let me get the keys.”
As Pastor Webb reached for his key ring on the desk, a sound echoed from the far end of the hallway.
A heavy thud. Followed by the unmistakable sound of splintering wood.
Dominic’s hand went instantly to his holster.
“Get behind the desk,” he whispered to Pastor Webb. To us, he signaled with two fingers. Stay put.
Dominic drew his weapon and moved silently down the hallway toward the stairwell leading to the basement. I didn't stay put. I stepped out of the office, keeping my back to the wall, following my son. I was 64 years old, but the instinct to protect your child doesn't retire when your knees go bad.
The door to the basement storage room had been kicked in. The lock hung uselessly from the frame.
Dominic sliced the pie around the corner, his weapon raised.
“FBI. Show me your hands.”
Silence from the dark basement.
Then, a voice. Calm. Professional.
“Agent Pierce. I was hoping I’d beat you here. Looks like a tie.”
A man stepped into the dim light at the bottom of the stairs. He wore a dark, nondescript suit. No mask. He looked like an insurance adjuster, completely unremarkable, which meant he was incredibly dangerous. He was holding a vintage leather briefcase.
“Put it down,” Dominic said.
The man smiled. “You know I can’t do that, Dominic. Mr. Hale was very specific. This bag doesn’t belong to you.”
“You’re trespassing, breaking and entering, and interfering with a federal investigation,” Dominic said. “Put the bag down, or I put you down.”
The fixer didn't flinch. Instead, he reached into his jacket.
Dominic tensed. “Hands where I can see them!”
The fixer pulled out his phone, holding it up by two fingers. “I just sent a text, Agent Pierce. To a contact in Atlanta. They’re sitting in a coffee shop across the street from a very lovely real estate office. The office where Sienna works.”
My blood ran cold. Delilah, standing behind me in the hall, let out a sharp gasp.
“If I don't walk out of this church with this bag in the next thirty seconds,” the fixer said, his tone conversational, “my contact is going to walk into that office and have a very brief, very violent conversation with Sienna. Mr. Hale figured you might get in the way. He told me to find leverage.”
Dominic stood perfectly still. The gun in his hand didn't waver, but I saw the muscles in his back bunch tight. He was trapped. If he shot the man, Sienna could die. If he let the man go, Tristan walked free, and the nightmare started all over again.
“Ten seconds, Dominic,” the man said.
I looked at my son. I looked at the man at the bottom of the stairs.
And then I remembered something Marsha had said years ago. “When a man tries to back you into a corner, Gavin, you don't fight the man. You break the wall.”
I stepped out from behind Dominic.
“Hey,” I yelled down the stairs.
The fixer’s eyes flicked to me. A momentary distraction.
“You think Tristan Hale cares about you?” I said, my voice echoing off the concrete walls. “That ledger you’re holding? It has Tristan’s crimes in it. Do you think a man like Tristan leaves evidence alive? The moment you hand that over, he’ll burn you too.”
“Five seconds, old man,” the fixer smirked.
But the distraction was exactly what Dominic needed.
Dominic didn't shoot center mass. He dropped his aim by three feet and fired a single round.
The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed stairwell.
The bullet shattered the fixer’s right kneecap.
The man screamed, collapsing to the concrete floor. The leather briefcase slid out of his hands, skidding across the basement. The phone dropped from his grip.
Dominic was down the stairs in a flash, kicking the phone away and pressing his knee into the man’s back, cuffing him with brutal efficiency.
“Call the contact in Atlanta,” Dominic roared, picking up the phone and pressing it to the man’s face to unlock it via face ID. “Call them off. Now.”
Through gritted teeth and agonizing pain, the fixer gave a command to stand down. Dominic verified the message, then immediately called the Atlanta FBI field office to dispatch agents to Sienna’s location.
I walked slowly down the stairs. Delilah was right behind me.
I walked over to the vintage leather briefcase. It was dusty. Scuffed. I popped the brass latches.
Inside, resting on red silk lining, was a thick, black, leather-bound journal.
I picked it up. It felt heavy. The weight of eight years of lies, corruption, and stolen lives.
I handed it to Delilah.
“Your donation,” I said.
She held the ledger to her chest, her hands shaking, not from fear, but from adrenaline.
May you like
The monster was still trying to reach us from his cage. But this time, we had cut off his hands.
“Get the paramedics,” Dominic said, pulling the fixer up by his collar. “And get my team. It’s over. We have the final nail.”
