Chapter 6 - THE NIGHT I STOPPED RUNNING
The first gunshot shattered the front window of Margaret's bookstore.
Thomas grabbed my arm.
"Back stairs. Now."
I stumbled toward the hallway, my injured ankle sending pain up my leg.
Margaret was already calling 911.
Downstairs, bookshelves crashed.
A man shouted.
"Find the woman!"
Thomas pulled a handgun from beneath his coat.
I stared.
"You're armed?"
"Claire, please. Move."
For a moment, I wanted to argue.
Then another shot struck the kitchen wall.
I stopped asking questions.
Margaret led me through the rear stairwell.
We emerged into a narrow alley smelling of wet pavement and bakery bread.
A black SUV waited at the far end.
Its headlights flashed.
I froze.
"That's not your car."
Thomas raised his weapon.
"Get behind me."
The driver's door opened.
A man stepped out with both hands visible.
"Federal task force!" he shouted. "Thomas, we have authorization to extract them."
Thomas lowered his gun slightly.
"Identification!"
The man produced credentials.
After Thomas verified them, he guided Margaret and me toward the vehicle.
Police sirens approached in the distance.
I looked back at the bookstore.
The upstairs window was broken.
Margaret's peaceful little world had been destroyed because I'd brought danger to her door.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
She squeezed my hand.
"Don't you dare apologize for someone else's crimes."
I started crying.
This time, I couldn't stop.
We drove to a secure location outside Madison.
Rebecca Shaw was waiting there with two investigators.
She examined my ankle, checked my concussion symptoms, and insisted I rest before answering questions.
But I couldn't.
"Who attacked the bookstore?"
"We believe Daniel's contractors," Thomas said.
"Believe?"
"Three men were detained. We're confirming their identities."
I looked toward Rebecca.
"What happens now?"
"We preserve the evidence. We establish who was behind the kidnapping. And we protect you while the investigation proceeds."
I pulled the small metal strip from my locket.
"Then start with this."
Rebecca took a photograph of it.
A specialist entered the numbers into a secure offline computer.
Minutes passed.
The screen displayed a directory containing hundreds of encrypted files.
Thomas leaned closer.
"My God."
"What?"
He pointed at a folder labeled:
MORETTI TRUST - ORIGINAL OWNERSHIP.
Another folder read:
AMBUSH - ARTHUR BENNETT.
My heartbeat thundered.
"Open that one."
The specialist accessed the archive.
A grainy surveillance recording appeared.
The timestamp was sixteen years old.
My father stood outside a warehouse arguing with Vittorio Moretti.
Then another man approached.
Daniel's father.
And finally, a fourth figure stepped into view.
The camera caught his face.
Thomas went completely still.
"That can't be right."
I leaned forward.
The fourth man looked toward the camera.
Older.
Bearded.
But unmistakable.
May you like
It was my father.
And the timestamp showed him alive four days after his supposed death.
