Chapter 4 - The Counter-Strike
At 0830 hours the next morning, I was sitting in the corner booth of a quiet diner two blocks from the county courthouse, wearing civilian jeans and a black leather jacket.
Across from me sat Marcus Cole. Marcus was six-foot-four, built like a brick wall, with twenty years of military intelligence and criminal investigation experience behind him. He set down his mug of coffee and slid a manila folder across the laminate table.
"Your father-in-law is a real piece of work, Evie," Marcus said, leaning back. "We ran Arthur Vance's firm through the Treasury Department's financial crimes network. It’s not just offshore loans. He's been using shell companies registered in Delaware to fake his development firm's revenue stats. He’s selling investors equity in land he doesn't even own."
"And Jackson?" I asked, opening the folder.
"Jackson is a co-signer on three of those shell companies," Marcus said, shaking his head with a cold laugh. "Your husband signed fraudulent financial statements last month to secure a two-hundred-thousand-dollar line of credit from a local bank. That’s bank fraud, wire fraud, and grand larceny under state and federal statutes."
I flipped through the bank statements. Jackson's signature was right there on the line, clear as day, stamped alongside a forged notary seal.
"He threatened to go to my commanding officer with a spousal abuse claim," I noted quietly.
Marcus snorted. "Let him try. Colonel Vance—no relation to your idiot husband, thank God—already reviewed the photos you took last night. He authorized a full protective order. If Jackson comes within five hundred feet of you or Fort Meade, military police will pick him up before he clears the main gate."
Right on cue, my personal phone began to ring.
The caller ID displayed the name of the local police precinct: 3rd District Station.
I answered on speaker. "Special Agent Vance."
"Special Agent Vance, this is Sergeant Higgins with the county police," a tired voice spoke over the line. "I'm sitting here at the desk with a Mr. Jackson Vance and his father, Arthur Vance. They're attempting to file an emergency protective order and an eviction notice against you for your downtown residential unit."
I looked at Marcus, who grinned wickedly.
"Sergeant Higgins," I said smoothly. "Did Mr. Vance happen to mention that the residential unit in question is sole property purchased prior to our marriage, and that he does not reside on the deed?"
"He claims he has a verbal equity agreement," Higgins replied. "He also claims you physically assaulted him with a weapon last night at his mother's residence."
"Sergeant, I am sending an encrypted file to your department's secure email right now," I told him. "It contains high-resolution photographs of the domestic crime scene from last night, including the weapon Mr. Vance threw at my head—a porcelain dinner plate—as well as timestamped text messages from Mr. Vance attempting to extort my property from me under threat of false professional reporting."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. I could hear muffled shouting in the background—Jackson's voice rising in anger, followed by the hard, commanding tone of an officer telling him to sit down.
"Got the file, Agent Vance," Higgins said three seconds later. His tone had completely changed. "I see the photos. And I see the text message."
"Sergeant," I added, "I am filing a formal criminal complaint against Jackson Vance for domestic assault, coercion, and filing a false police report. Special Agent Marcus Cole of Army CID is currently sitting beside me and can confirm my statement."
"Understood, Agent Vance," Higgins said, a sharp edge entering his voice. "Mr. Vance, step away from the counter. Sir, put your hands behind your back..."
The call cut off as the sounds of a struggle echoed through the speaker.
May you like
Marcus picked up his coffee mug and raised it toward me. "Round one goes to the United States Army."
"Round one is just the warmup, Marcus," I replied, staring out the diner window at the city streets. "Jackson and his father owe millions to bad people. When men like that get desperate, they don't stop because of a police citation. They get reckless."
