Chapter 24 - The Man Beneath the Dock
I wanted Aiden moved again.
He refused.
For once, Agent Ross agreed with him.
Victor expected movement.
Every relocation created opportunities.
Our home had already been transformed into a fortress.
Federal agents watched every road.
Coast Guard boats patrolled the water.
Thermal drones scanned the marsh.
“If he comes here,” Ross said, “we control the environment.”
I hated that logic.
I accepted it.
Aiden hugged me so hard when I came through the door that my bruised ribs protested.
I did not complain.
Martha waited her turn.
Then she slapped my shoulder.
“Ow.”
“That was for getting kidnapped.”
“Technically—”
She slapped me again.
“That was for saying technically.”
I laughed.
For ten minutes, we were normal.
Then night came.
At 2:13 a.m., a motion alarm sounded near the dock.
Agents moved instantly.
Thermal cameras showed nothing.
Wind.
Probably.
At 3:06, another alarm.
Nothing.
At 3:42, I woke to a sound beneath my bedroom window.
Scrape.
Pause.
Scrape.
I reached for the bedside alarm.
Then I saw him.
Victor Lang stood outside.
Mud covered his clothes.
Blood stained one sleeve.
His face looked skeletal.
He pressed one finger to his lips.
Then lifted a gun.
I triggered the alarm.
Victor fired through the window.
Glass exploded.
I rolled off the bed.
Agents shouted.
Victor ran.
I heard footsteps on the dock.
Then a splash.
By the time agents reached the water, he had vanished.
Again.
But this time, he had made a mistake.
He left blood on the broken glass.
And a waterproof pouch beneath my window.
Inside were photographs.
Not surveillance.
Insurance.
Pictures of judges accepting envelopes.
Attorneys meeting Lang employees.
Dr. Pierce with unidentified patients.
Politicians at private dinners.
Victor had brought leverage.
Why?
Thomas arrived before sunrise.
He examined the photographs.
“He planned to bargain.”
“With me?”
“Maybe.”
Agent Ross looked toward the marsh.
“He’s running out of options.”
A diver searched beneath the dock.
At 7:20, he found something.
A breathing apparatus.
Victor had hidden under our dock before approaching the house.
He had been beneath us.
Waiting.
Aiden heard the news and became quiet.
I found him sitting on the porch steps.
“Want company?”
He shrugged.
I sat.
“What if he keeps coming back?”
“He won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because every time he does, he loses something.”
Aiden looked at me.
“He still has a gun.”
“Yes.”
“He still knows where we live.”
“Yes.”
“He’s still not caught.”
“Yes.”
He frowned.
“That doesn’t sound like losing.”
I pointed toward the agents.
“He lost privacy.”
Toward Thomas.
“He lost money.”
Toward the evidence vehicle.
“He lost secrets.”
Then I touched Aiden’s chest.
“And he never had this.”
“What?”
“A family who protects one another because we love each other, not because we own each other.”
Aiden leaned against me.
At noon, the photographs produced another breakthrough.
One showed a county judge named Everett Shaw accepting cash from Victor.
Judge Shaw had presided over seven guardianship cases connected to Lang properties.
Federal agents arrested him that afternoon.
He immediately asked for a deal.
Cowards recognize sinking ships.
Shaw provided account numbers.
Names.
Dates.
And one crucial fact.
Victor maintained a coastal escape property nobody had found because it was owned through a trust registered in the Bahamas.
A small private island south of St. Simons.
Accessible only by boat.
Agents launched within the hour.
They found food.
Medical supplies.
Cash.
Three passports.
Weapons.
And a laptop.
Victor was not there.
But the laptop contained active navigation data.
One route had been opened repeatedly.
A marina near Brunswick.
Security footage from that marina showed Victor stealing a pickup truck at 4:10 that morning.
Traffic cameras followed it inland.
Then lost it.
At sunset, Thomas received a call.
Dr. Pierce had regained full consciousness.
He wanted immunity from additional charges.
Prosecutors refused.
He talked anyway.
Victor had one last refuge.
Not a mansion.
Not a warehouse.
A church retreat property outside Macon funded by a charitable trust.
A place Victor had donated to for twenty years.
Thomas checked.
The retreat was hosting a weekend conference.
Nearly sixty people were there.
If Victor entered armed, the situation could become catastrophic.
Federal teams mobilized.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A child’s voice whispered.
“Mrs. Cross?”
Not Aiden.
A girl.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Lily.”
“Where are you?”
“At Saint Matthew’s retreat.”
My blood turned cold.
“There’s a man here with a gun.”
In the background, someone shouted.
Lily began crying.
“He says he wants Claire Cross.”
May you like
Victor had found sixty hostages.
And he wanted me.
