Chapter 4 - The Hunter and the Prey
The heavy wrought-iron gates of the Hale estate were unlocked when I arrived at midnight.
The massive colonial house stood dark against the night sky, looking more like a mausoleum than the warm, laughter-filled home of my childhood. I parked my car at the edge of the driveway, keeping the headlights off.
Marcus was on his way with a legal team and a court-ordered emergency injunction to seize the property, but I couldn't wait. I knew Vanessa’s lawyers would try to shred every document inside my father’s private study the moment they realized she had been arrested.
I walked up the stone steps, my boots silent. I reached for the brass doorknob, but before my hand could touch it, the door swung open.
The hallway inside was pitch black, but the familiar scent of old paper and my father’s expensive mahogany furniture was gone, replaced by the sharp, metallic smell of gasoline.
"Looking for this, Daniel?"
A flashlight clicked on, blinding me.
Standing at the top of the walnut staircase was Damien’s personal fixer, a brutal, thick-necked man named Roman whom Damien had hired as "head of logistics" shortly after I was sent to prison. In his right hand, Roman held a heavy metal canister of fuel. In his left, he held a burning copper lighter, its flame dancing merrily in the dark.
"Damien’s lawyers are fast, but I’m faster," Roman sneered, his voice low and grating. "He called me from the precinct lockup before they took his phone. He told me to make sure there was nothing left of this house for you to inherit. No files. No memories. No Daniel."
"You're going to burn down a thirty-million-dollar estate for a guy who is going to spend the rest of his life in a federal penitentiary?" I asked, keeping my voice steady as I slowly reached into my coat pocket.
"Damien has offshore accounts he hasn't told the feds about yet," Roman laughed, taking a step down the stairs, pouring a thick stream of gasoline onto the beautiful wood carpet. "And he promised me five million of it if I make sure you don't survive the night. A tragic house fire... a grieving son who couldn't handle his father's death and decided to join him. It’s a clean story."
"You're not very good at reading the room, Roman," I said.
In a flash of movement, I pulled my hand from my pocket—not with a weapon, but with my father's heavy silver-headed walking cane, which I had taken from his lockbox. I swung it with all the force of three years of prison-yard survival, striking Roman directly across his knee.
With a sickening crack, Roman roared in pain, dropping the canister of gasoline and tumbling down the stairs. The burning lighter slipped from his fingers, falling onto the dry, fuel-soaked Persian rug.
The hallway erupted into a sheet of orange flame.
The heat was instantaneous, blistering my skin. Roman scrambled on the floor, his trousers catching fire as he screamed, crawling toward the door.
I didn't look at him. I ran past the flames, leaping up the stairs two at a time toward my father's study. The smoke was already thick and black, filling my lungs as I kicked open the heavy oak door.
The room was in disarray. Filing cabinets had been pulled open, papers scattered across the floor. In the corner sat my father’s massive steel safe.
I knelt in front of the safe, my eyes watering from the smoke. I spun the dial to the combination my father had taught me when I was ten years old—our fishing date at Lake Mercer.
10... 24... 88.
The heavy steel door clicked and swung open.
Inside lay a black velvet box. I opened it. Resting inside was the true, unmodified, physical will of Arthur Hale, signed and witnessed by three of the city’s most respected judges before his illness. It left 100% of the estate, the company shares, and the properties to me.
"Got you, Dad," I whispered, clutching the document to my chest.
May you like
I turned to leave, but the doorway was completely blocked by a wall of roaring, golden fire. The ceiling began to groan, heavy wooden beams cracking under the immense heat.
With no other choice, I wrapped my jacket around my head, ran toward the massive stained-glass window at the end of the study, and threw myself through the glass.
