MY SON WHISPERED: “IF A MAN WITH YOUR FACE COMES BACK, MOM SAID WE HAVE TO HIDE” — THEN I TURNED THE CAMERA BACK ON

"Don't hang up!" I screamed into the phone, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the glass screen. "Julian! Listen to me!"

"I'm listening, Mark," Julian replied casually, the background noise of traffic humming softly behind his voice. "But you should be listening to the sirens outside. You have about three minutes before the SWAT team surrounds that warehouse. Frank Vance’s office turned out to be very easy to track."

"If you lay a single finger on Laura or my sons, I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth," I snarled, every muscle in my body coiled tight.

Julian let out a dark, dismissive laugh. "Sons? They aren't yours, Mark. Deep down, you know it. Laura knows it too. That's why she cried when she saw the maternity bracelets. She knows that night ten years ago wasn't a nightmare. It was the night her true life began. Enjoy the trial, brother. I hear the state penitentiary is lovely this time of year."

The line went dead.

"Mark!" Frank yelled, grabbing a tactical duffel bag from under his desk and throwing a laptop inside. "We have to move right now! My security cameras just picked up three unmarked police cruisers turning onto the street!"

"I can't run, Frank!" I yelled back. "If I run, I look guilty! The police will shoot me on sight!"

"If you get arrested right now, you’ll be processed, held without bail for attempted murder, and locked in a high-security holding cell for forty-eight hours!" Frank countered, grabbing my jacket and pulling me toward a hidden rear door behind a bookshelf. "In forty-eight hours, Julian will have used your face, your biometric data, and your keycards to walk right past your security guards and take your family! Is that what you want?"

The realization hit me like a physical blow. Frank was right. The legal system was a trap Julian had expertly laid out. If I entered a jail cell, my family would be defenseless.

"Where are we going?" I asked as we scrambled down a narrow metal staircase into an underground alleyway behind the warehouse.

"We go dark," Frank said, pushing open the rear exit door just as the loud wail of police sirens echoed from the street out front. "We head to my safehouse in the West Loop. Then we figure out how to catch a ghost."

Ten minutes later, we were in the back of a non-descript delivery van, navigating through the maze of downtown traffic. My phone was turned off, battery removed, to prevent federal tracking.

On Frank’s encrypted laptop, we watched the live police feed.

Officers had surrounded my penthouse building. Detective Miller was on the scene, speaking frantically into a radio. Through the long lens of a news helicopter camera, I saw my family—Laura, flanked by armed guards, holding Evan and Liam tight—being escorted out of the building into an armored police transport vehicle.

"Where are they taking them?" I asked, my voice tight with desperation.

"Standard witness protection protocol for a high-profile violent suspect," Frank said, analyzing the police radio chatter. "They're moving Laura and the boys to a secure county safehouse off Highway 41 near the pine ridge district."

"Is it secure?"

Frank hesitated, looking at me with grim eyes. "It's secure against normal threats, Mark. But Julian isn't a normal threat. He has your face, your voice, and your government identification. If he walks up to that safehouse wearing your clothes and holding your driver's license, those local deputies won't shoot. They'll open the door for him."

A cold sweat broke out across my neck.

I reached down and grabbed the radio unit on Frank's console. "Frank, we aren't going to your safehouse."

"What are you talking about?"

"Julian knew where your office was. He knew where the police were going. He's steps ahead of us because he's predicting our moves based on how I think," I said, my mind racing at light speed. "He wants me to run. He wants me to play the fugitive. Which means he’s already heading to Highway 41."

"Mark, you don't have weapons, you don't have a badge, and the entire state police force is hunting you down," Frank warned.

"I don't care," I said, looking Frank dead in the eye with a fury that surprised even myself. "That man stole my childhood. He stole my peace. He tried to steal my marriage. He is not taking my boys."

Frank looked at me for three long seconds, evaluating the cold determination in my face. Then, with a slow nod, he pulled a black lockbox from beneath the van's bench seat and flipped the heavy latches open.