Chapter 3: THE ASHES OF RETALIATION
Peace is a fragile thing. For three months, Sunrise Ember was exactly what Raymond Hale had always dreamed it would be. Safe. Warm. Honest. Emily Harper loved her new job. She traveled to different branches. She listened. She fixed. She protected. She thought the war was over. She was wrong.
It started on a Tuesday night. Emily was closing up the files at the downtown branch. The café was empty. The streets were quiet. Then, her phone vibrated. An unknown number. Just like before. But this time, it wasn’t a threat to quit. It was a photo.
Emily stared at the screen. Her blood ran cold. It was a picture of Dylan Cross’s truck. Taken from a distance. Then, a second photo. Her mother’s apartment building. And finally, a text message: You took our money, Emily. Did you really think Grant Wexler was the boss?
Before she could process the words, the café’s front window shattered. A heavy brick wrapped in a black cloth crashed onto the floor, sending glass flying across the espresso machines. Emily dropped to the ground, covering her head. Alarms blared. She scrambled backward, pulling her phone to her chest. Her hands were shaking, but she didn’t dial 911. She dialed the one person who knew what to do when the world broke apart.
Dylan answered on the first ring. “I’m on my way,” he said. He didn't ask what happened. He heard the alarm. “Dylan, they know about my mom,” Emily choked out. “My guys are already at your mother’s building,” Dylan replied. His voice was absolute ice. “She’s safe. Stay low. Five minutes.”
Emily huddled behind the counter. The text message glared at her. You took our money. What money? Grant Wexler was in federal custody waiting for trial. The audit had stripped him of everything. But Grant was a regional director. He couldn't have built a multi-state retaliation ring on his own. Someone else funded it. Someone dangerous.
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Five minutes later, tires screeched outside. Not a police cruiser. A black SUV. Dylan kicked the shattered door open, scanning the room. He found her behind the counter. He pulled her up, his massive hands gentle but firm. “Are you hurt?” “No. Just glass.” He looked at the brick. Then at her phone. “Show me the message.” Emily handed it to him. Dylan’s jaw tightened. The muscles in his neck strained. “Grant was laundering money,” Dylan whispered, realizing the terrifying truth. “The wage theft, the fake inventory, the suppressed reports... it wasn’t just corporate greed.” Emily stared at him. “It was a front.” “Yes.” “For who?” “For people who don’t send lawyers,” Dylan said. “They send fire.”
His phone buzzed. It was one of his veterans, a man named Torres. “Cross,” Torres said over the speaker. “We’ve got a problem. The Sunrise Ember on 4th Street just went up in flames. Arson. And we found a message painted on the back door.” Dylan closed his eyes. “What does it say?” “It says: Ask the waitress for the ledger.”
