Chapter 5 - Retaliation and Counter-Strike
By 8:00 PM that evening, Cannon Beach was wrapped in pitch-black darkness, punctuated only by the rhythmic flash of the lighthouse miles up the coast and the howling wind rattling the spruce trees.
I had sent Mom and Dad to a luxury oceanfront resort two miles south in Manzanita for the weekend under the care of a trusted private nurse, ensuring they were far away from whatever Gregory might attempt.
The beach house was dark from the outside. Only a single reading lamp glowed on the first floor.
Upstairs in the master bedroom, I sat in front of a laptop connected to the newly installed high-definition security system. Six infrared cameras covered the perimeter: the driveway, the dunes, the side gates, the rear deck, and the crawlspace access.
Downstairs, sitting in an armchair by the unlit fireplace, was Arthur Vance and Detective James Carver, a retired Oregon State Police investigator Arthur frequently retained for high-risk corporate disputes.
At 11:15 PM, Camera 2—the north dunes camera—triggered a motion alert.
A dark figure stepped through the beach grass, cutting across the sand toward the wraparound deck. He was wearing a dark hooded jacket, work boots, and carrying a five-gallon red plastic container in his right hand.
I recognized the broad shoulders and heavy gait instantly.
Gregory.
He wasn't coming to apologize. He wasn't coming to beg.
Driven insane by the impending fraud charges and the exposure of his financial ruin, he was coming to burn down the evidence of his humiliation—or collect an insurance payout by staging an arson and blaming the "storm damage."
"He’s on the north deck," I whispered into the two-way radio clipped to my shirt.
"Understood," Detective Carver responded from below. "Let him make entry or commit an overt act. We need the intent fully established on video."
On the monitor, I watched Gregory step onto the porch. He didn't use a key. He pulled a crowbar from his waistband and jammed it into the frame of the sliding glass patio doors, leaning his entire body weight into it.
The tempered glass shattered with a loud *crack* that echoed through the house.
Gregory stepped through the broken shards, dropping the red plastic container onto the hardwood floor. He unscrewed the yellow cap and began splashing clear liquid across the living room rugs and toward the kitchen island.
The sharp, pungent stench of gasoline drifted up the stairwell.
"Lucas!" Gregory shouted into the dark house, his voice ragged, hoarse, and completely unhinged. "I know you're in here, you arrogant prick! Come down here and face me!"
I walked slowly down the stairs, stepping into the dim light of the foyer.
Gregory froze, holding a chrome Zippo lighter in his left hand. His face was covered in sweat, his eyes bloodshot and wide with manic adrenaline.
"You ruined me, Lucas," Gregory hissed, his thumb flicking the wheel of the lighter. A small yellow flame danced between his fingers. "My wife hates me. My boys won't look at me. The state police are knocking on my contractor office door in Portland. You took everything from me!"
"You took everything from yourself, Gregory," I said, keeping my voice deadpan, refusing to give him the fear he craved. "You stole from your clients. You lied to your wife. You tried to forge my father’s name on a fraudulent loan to cover your gambling and bad investments. And now you’re standing in my house with an open flame and five gallons of accelerant."
"I'm burning this place to the ground!" Gregory screamed, tears of pure rage slipping down his cheeks. "If I can't have this house, your precious parents won't have it either! Let’s see what your high-priced lawyer does when this place is nothing but ash!"
"He won't have to do much," a deep voice boomed from the shadows behind the kitchen pantry.
Detective Carver stepped into the light, his Glock drawn and leveled directly at Gregory's chest.
"Drop the lighter, Mr. Ward! Clatsop County Task Force! Drop the lighter right now, or you will not survive this night!"
Simultaneously, the front door burst open. Two uniformed deputies from the sheriff's office rushed in with tactical flashlights, their weapons drawn, blinding Gregory with intense white beams.
"Drop it! Drop it now!"
Gregory blinked against the blinding glare, looking wildly around the room. He realized within three seconds that the house hadn't been empty. It had been an ambush. Every angle of his entry, the crowbar, the gasoline, the open lighter—it had all been recorded in 4K resolution with multiple legal witnesses standing five feet away.
The lighter slipped from his trembling fingers, clattering uselessly against the gasoline-soaked wood floor.
Detective Carver lunged forward, kicking the lighter away before Gregory could even blink. Within seconds, the two deputies tackled Gregory face-first into the floor, twisting his arms behind his back and snapping steel handcuffs around his wrists with brutal efficiency.
"Gregory Ward," Deputy Miller recited as he drove his knee into Gregory’s shoulder blades, "you are under arrest for first-degree burglary, attempted aggravated arson, reckless endangerment, and felony criminal mischief."
Gregory groaned in agony as his face was pressed into the shattered glass, his arrogance completely evaporating into pathetic, desperate whimpers.
"Lucas! Lucas, please!" Gregory cried out from the floor, his voice cracking like a terrified child. "Don't do this! Think of your nephews! Think of Fiona! I made a mistake! Lucas!"
I walked over to the front door, avoiding the broken glass and gasoline pools, and looked down at him one last time.
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"My nephews deserve to grow up without a criminal dragging them into the gutter," I said cold-bloodedly. "Take him out of my sight."
***
