I came home two months early from Saudi Arabia carrying gifts for my wife and son and found them starving inside a padlocked shed behind the mansion I had been paying for.

Tyler didn't go quietly.

With the wire transfer dead and forty-eight million dollars evaporating into thin air, the last shred of Tyler Vance’s sanity snapped.

His hand darted into his jacket pocket, reaching for the compact Sig Sauer P365.

"Tyler, don't!" Sterling screamed, diving under the rosewood table.

Before Tyler’s fingers could even clear the holster, I crossed the ten feet of space between us.

Twelve years of combat reflexes took over. My left hand clamped over his wrist, driving the weapon back into his pocket, while my right palm drove upward into the base of his nose.

The sound of cartilage crunching was loud and wet.

Tyler shrieked as his head bounced off the reinforced plate glass window. Blood sprayed across the pristine glass, bright crimson against the morning skyline. I pivoted, hooking my leg behind his knee, and slammed him face-first onto the imported Brazilian rosewood table.

The crystal water carafes shattered, sending shards and cold water cascading over Tyler’s tailored suit.

I twisted his right arm behind his back until the shoulder joint screamed. "Try it," I whispered into his ear, my knee buried deep between his shoulder blades. "Give me an excuse, Tyler. Please."

"David! David, stop! I surrender! I surrender!" Tyler choked out, his blood pooling on the polished wood, mixing with the spilled water and coffee.

The two DCIS agents moved in, their weapons drawn. "Step back, Mr. Mercer! We’ve got him! We’ve got him!"

I slowly released my grip and stepped back, letting the federal agents take over.

One agent drove a knee into Tyler’s neck, yanking both of his arms back and clicking heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists. Tyler was sobbing now, the blood pouring from his shattered nose onto his Italian silk tie, his chest heaving with ragged, terrified gasps.

"Tyler Vance," Sarah Vance recited, pulling a laminated Miranda card from her pocket. "You are under arrest for conspiracy, wire fraud, aggravated identity theft, and violations of the Trafficking Victims Protection Act. You have the right to remain silent..."

While Tyler was being read his rights, two County Sheriff’s deputies stepped toward Beatrice, who was slumped against the wall by the door, weeping hysterically.

"Mrs. Mercer," the lead deputy said, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his utility belt. "You need to put your hands behind your back."

"No! No! I am David’s mother!" she screamed, flailing her arms like a drowning woman. "David! Tell them! Tell them you forgive me! You're my son! You can't let them take me to jail! I have high blood pressure! I have a heart condition!"

I walked over to where she stood.

The deputies paused, looking at me.

I looked down at the woman who had brought me into the world, who had watched me grow up, and who had locked my ten-year-old child in a shed to freeze and starve so she could buy sports cars and pretend to be an aristocrat.

"David..." she sobbed, looking up at me with pleading, desperate eyes. "Please. I made a mistake. Tyler poisoned my mind! He tricked me!"

"You didn't make a mistake, Beatrice," I said, my voice dead and cold. "You made an investment. You invested my money, my wife’s sanity, and my son’s life into your own vanity. And now your dividend has matured."

I nodded to the deputies. "Take her."

The deputies turned her around, pulled her arms behind her back, and clicked the cuffs shut. Beatrice began to wail—a high, keening shriek of pure, unadulterated self-pity that echoed down the executive corridor as they dragged her toward the elevators.

Arthur Sterling was trembling beneath the table, his hands raised in the air. "I... I was merely acting as retained counsel! I had no knowledge of the criminal confinement!"

"You'll have plenty of time to explain that to the state bar association, Arthur," Sarah Vance said, motioning to the remaining deputies. "Take him too. Accessory after the fact."

Richard Harrison, the CEO of Apex, stood near the doorway, visibly shaken. He looked at the blood on the table, the broken glass, and then at me.

"Mr. Mercer," Harrison said, clearing his throat and adjusting his tie. "I... I am profoundly horrified by what has transpired here. Apex Global Acquisitions had no idea—"

"Save it, Mr. Harrison," I said, picking up the heavy manila folder containing my original corporate shares. "Mercer-Vance Logistics is no longer for sale."

Harrison swallowed. "Mr. Mercer... the forty-eight million dollar valuation is still solid. If you are the sole verified owner, Apex is prepared to renegotiate directly with you. We can close by the end of the month."

"My company’s Department of Defense logistics routes are not for sale to a conglomerate that doesn't vet its acquisition partners," I told him, looking him dead in the eye. "I built this company from the dirt. And as of today, Tyler Vance’s shares are surrendered under federal civil forfeiture, and the family trust is dissolved."

I turned toward the door where Marcus was waiting.

"Marcus," I said. "Let’s go."

"Where to, boss?"