Chapter 4 - The Digital Trap
"Get away from the windows!" Marcus yelled, drawing a heavy steel-barreled revolver from his coat pocket and moving swiftly toward the front door.
Becca screamed, ducking behind the heavy wooden kitchen island. I pulled her down with me, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. On the laptop screen, Dad’s recorded message continued to play, but the audio was suddenly drowned out by a high-pitched, electronic squeal.
The screen flickered. The video feed of Dad froze, and a new window popped up automatically, flashing in bright red text: LOCALIZATION COMPLETE. TRANSMITTING COORDINATES.
"She didn't follow us," Marcus muttered, his face draining of all color as he stared at the screen. "She tracked the envelope. There was a passive RFID tracker woven into the cardboard lining."
"Can we turn it off?" I shouted over the electronic whine.
"It’s already out, Leo! They’re already here!"
Before Marcus could reach the breaker box, the front door didn't just open—it exploded inward. Heavy iron hinges splintered into a hundred jagged pieces as a concussion grenade filled the cabin with a blinding flash of white light and a deafening shockwave that knocked me flat onto my back.
Smoke billowed through the doorway. Through the haze, three figures in black tactical gear poured into the cabin, moving with ruthless, synchronized precision. They weren't local police. They didn't shout warnings or read rights. They cleared the rooms with terrifying efficiency.
One of them pivoted toward the kitchen island, his assault rifle raised. "Target secured. Area clear."
A moment later, another figure stepped through the ruined doorway, brushing soot off the shoulder of an expensive winter coat.
It was Mom.
She didn't look frantic anymore. The tears, the trembling robe, the helpless suburban mother act—it was all gone. Her expression was completely blank, cold, and calculating. She looked at Marcus lying stunned against the wall, then down at Becca and me huddled behind the counter.
"I told you both to stay home," Mom said, her voice entirely devoid of warmth. It sounded mechanical, like a stranger speaking through a familiar face. "You have no idea how much trouble you’ve caused. Your father made a monumental mess in Zurich, and now you’ve forced my hand."
"You're not our mother," I whispered, my voice shaking with rage as I slowly stood up, keeping Becca shielded behind me. "Who the hell are you?"
Mom—or whatever she actually was—smiled faintly, a chilling, humorless expression. "I am the only family you’ve got left, Leo. And as of yesterday, according to the state of Washington, I have full, unquestioned custody of both of you. Pack your bags. The private airstrip fifty miles north is already warmed up."
She gestured to the tactical operatives, who stepped forward with zip ties in their hands.
My mind raced. Marcus was down, the door was destroyed, and we were completely outgunned. But as I looked down at the table, I noticed the laptop screen was still flashing. While the operatives were focused on us, a background script Dad had programmed into the system was quietly executing.
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A progress bar on the screen hit 100%.
Suddenly, every cell phone, tactical radio, and vehicle outside the cabin began to buzz and flash simultaneously with a blinding white light.
