Chapter 8 - The Breaking Point
The concrete garage was silent save for the hum of the SUV’s engine.
I lay on the floor, my head throbbing, staring at the live video feed of my sister’s house on Raymond Vale’s phone.
“Call them off,” I croaked, trying to find my footing, but the man in the jacket pressed a heavy boot into my shoulder, pinning me down.
“Give me the master drive encryption key, Clara,” Raymond demanded, stepping closer. “Give me the files Mara saved, and the source code for the bank alert you triggered today. Do that, and your family lives to see tomorrow. Refuse, and my men go through that back door.”
I looked at the cracked screen of my laptop on the ground.
The data transfer progress bar was at eighty-nine percent.
It was uploading to Naomi Price’s secure DOJ server.
If I gave Raymond the key, the upload would abort, and the evidence against Victor’s global network would be wiped out.
If I refused, Mara would pay the ultimate price.
It was the classic choice of an investigator—the mission versus the blood.
But Raymond didn't know one crucial thing about my sister.
Mara wasn't the same girl who had hidden behind me during thunderstorms.
She wasn't the girl who had cowered in the bridal boutique six months ago.
She had spent the last half-year learning how to fight.
Suddenly, on Raymond’s phone screen, the live feed showed the two men pushing open the back door of the kitchen.
A second later, a brilliant, blinding flash erupted inside the house.
A deafening pop echoed even through the tiny phone speaker.
A flashbang.
But it didn't come from Raymond’s men.
It came from inside the kitchen.
The two men tumbled backward onto the lawn, clutching their eyes and groaning in agony.
From the side of the garage, my mother appeared, holding a heavy-gauge hunting shotgun my father kept for home defense.
She didn't hesitate.
She fired one shot into the air, the blast echoing like thunder through the neighborhood.
The two intruders scrambled to their feet, terrified, and sprinted toward their getaway vehicle, leaving their equipment behind.
Mara stepped out onto the porch behind my mother, holding a tactical pepper spray canister in one hand and her phone in the other, her face fierce, absolute fury radiating from her posture.
Raymond stared at the screen, his mouth falling open in shock.
His flawless tactical operation had been dismantled by an old woman with a shotgun and a traumatized girl who refused to be a victim again.
“Your information is old, Raymond,” I said, finding a sudden surge of strength.
I threw my weight to the side, breaking the guard’s balance, and kicked him hard in the knee.
He roared in pain, dropping his hold on me.
I scrambled to my feet, grabbed my cracked laptop, and slammed the heavy battery pack directly into Raymond’s face.
The impact sent him crashing against the side of his SUV, his phone flying across the garage and shattering.
“The upload is complete,” I whispered, looking at my laptop screen as the final confirmation box flashed green.
The sirens began to wail in the distance—not from my location, but from the high-security grid Julian Sterling had activated when I failed to check in.
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Raymond looked up at me, blood dripping from his nose, his eyes filled with a new, profound terror.
“It’s over, Raymond,” I said, backing toward my car, my hands steady despite the blood on my face. “You’re out of moves.”
