Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4 — The Counter-Strike
Marcus Vance was not a man used to losing.
But he was also a man who fundamentally underestimated women.
He assumed, just like Tucker had, that I was playing checkers while he played chess.
He didn’t realize I owned the board.
The following Tuesday, Vance made his move, exactly as I had anticipated.
He attempted to file a massive, anonymous lawsuit against the Phoenix Fund.
The suit claimed that the fund was built on defrauded investor capital, aiming to freeze our charity accounts.
It was a blatant intimidation tactic, designed to force a quiet settlement.
Rachel burst into my office, waving the freshly served legal documents.
“He took the bait,” Rachel said, her voice practically vibrating with excitement.
“He filed it through a shell law firm, but the digital signatures trace back to his main server.”
I stood up, smoothing the front of my designer skirt.
“Perfect. Are the federal marshals ready?”
“Waiting on your word.”
By filing a fraudulent federal lawsuit, Vance had committed perjury and corporate sabotage on the record.
We hadn’t just bought his debts; we had wired his legitimate offices with legal tripwires.
I grabbed my coat. “Let’s go watch the show.”
We drove downtown in my town car, parking across the street from Vance’s sleek, high-rise office building.
The rain had stopped, leaving the city slick and reflective in the afternoon light.
I rolled down the tinted window just as four unmarked black SUVs screeched to a halt in front of the building.
A dozen federal agents wearing tactical vests swarmed the lobby.
They had warrants for money laundering, extortion, and federal court fraud, all meticulously compiled by Rachel and my team.
“It’s beautiful,” Rachel murmured, watching as agents began carrying out boxes of hard drives.
“It’s justice,” I corrected her.
Fifteen minutes later, Marcus Vance was led out the glass doors in handcuffs.
His tailored suit was rumpled, and his face was purple with rage.
He looked frantically around the street, his eyes locking onto my idling town car.
I didn’t shrink back. I didn’t hide.
I looked him dead in the eye and gave him a slow, mocking wave.
Vance lunged forward, screaming obscenities, but the federal agents shoved him roughly into the back of an SUV.
“That’s the end of the Viper Group,” Rachel said, rolling her window up.
“Not quite,” I replied, pulling my phone from my purse.
“We still have to tie up the loose end that started all this.”
I dialed a direct line to the warden of the state penitentiary where Tucker was housed.
I had made several massive, anonymous donations to the prison’s rehabilitation programs over the last year.
The warden answered on the second ring.
“Madam Chairwoman,” the warden said politely. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Warden, I have reason to believe inmate Tucker Reynolds is operating a smuggled cellular device.”
“Furthermore, he has been using it to communicate with a known organized crime syndicate.”
The line went dead silent for a moment.
“That is a very serious accusation,” the warden said.
“I am emailing you the exact timestamps, phone numbers, and audio transcripts of his calls right now.”
My security team had intercepted the calls the moment Melanie gave us the timeline.
“If this is true,” the warden said grimly, “he will be transferred to solitary confinement immediately.”
“And he’ll face federal charges for conspiracy to commit extortion.”
“I trust you will handle it with your usual efficiency, Warden.”
I ended the call and leaned my head back against the leather seat.
“Take us back to the office,” I told my driver.
May you like
Tucker wanted to play games from his cage.
I just threw away the key.
