Chapter 42 #2
These kids trust us. All three of us. Want us here. Need us here.
And someone just tried to take that away.
I move to the dining table, standing behind Cal’s chair, looking at the screens he has open. Security feeds from the park, frozen on frames showing the attackers. Traffic camera footage from surrounding streets. Database searches running in the background.
“Talk to me,” I say quietly.
“Got clear shots of four of the shooters,” Cal says, pulling up images. “Ran them through facial recognition. Two came back with hits—former military, dishonorably discharged, known to work as mercenaries for hire.”
“Mercenaries.” Not random thugs. Not opportunistic criminals. Professionals.
“Yeah.” Cal switches to another screen. “But here’s where it gets interesting. Look at the shooting patterns.”
He plays back the security footage, highlighting the bullet impacts. I watch carefully, my brain automatically analyzing angles, trajectories, coverage.
“Ground team here,” Cal points. “Six shooters, semi-automatic rifles, spray pattern designed to create chaos and panic.”
“But not designed to kill,” I observe. “If they wanted us dead, with that many shooters in position, someone would be.”
“Exactly.” Cal switches views. “Now look at this.”
He zooms out, showing a wider angle of the park and surrounding area. Enhances two buildings in the background.
“What am I looking at?”
“Sniper positions.” He adjusts the audio, cranking up the volume. I hear it then—the sharp crack of a high-powered rifle, distinct from the rapid fire of the ground team.
“Two snipers,” I say, my blood going cold. “Long-range positions with clear line of sight to the diamond.”
“Yep. And they fired—” Cal pulls up a count. “—eight rounds total. Want to guess how many hit anywhere near their targets?”
“None.”
“None,” Cal confirms. “Professional snipers, elevated positions, clear shots at stationary targets. And they hit dirt, fence posts, and bench wood. Nothing that would actually hurt anyone.”
I lean closer, my hands bracing on the back of his chair. “This wasn’t an assassination attempt.”
“No. This was a message.” Cal’s voice is hard. “Someone wanted to scare us. Show us they could get to us, could get to the kids, could have killed us if they wanted to. But they chose not to.”
“Which means they want something.”
“Or they’re working up to something bigger.” Cal switches screens again. “Got more. The vehicles—”
He pulls up traffic camera footage showing three dark SUVs leaving the area. License plates visible.
“Ran the plates. Fake. But I did a reverse search on the manufacturing markers.” He brings up a new window showing technical specs, serial numbers. “These weren’t street-level forgeries. These were professional-grade fakes, the kind you need specialized equipment and access to make.”
“And?”
“And there are only three places in the city with that equipment. Two are government facilities. The third—” Cal pulls up a business profile. “—is Ramirez Auto Group.”
The Ramirez family. The ones Parker flagged this morning for creative accounting. The ones we have a partnership with for vehicle acquisition and modification.
“The dealership where we source our vehicles,” I say slowly.
“Yep.” Cal’s fingers fly across the keyboard. “Could be they’re involved. Could be they’ve been compromised. Could be someone stole their equipment. But either way, that’s where those plates came from.”
My phone is already in my hand. “I’m going.”
“Silas—”
“Someone just tried to kill my family using equipment from a business we have a relationship with.” My voice is cold, deadly calm. “I’m going to find out why, and I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
From the living room, I hear Noah laugh at something Jace said. A small sound, tentative, but genuine.
That laugh is the only thing keeping me from going to the Ramirez dealership and burning it to the ground without asking questions first.
But only barely.
“I’m coming with you,” Cal says, already closing his laptops.
“No.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Stay here. Keep working the digital angles. I need you to track where those SUVs went after they left the park, see if you can ID the other shooters, find any other connections.”
“Silas—”
“And I need you here.” I glance at the living room, where Parker is watching us with worried eyes, where the boys are finally starting to relax. “Someone needs to stay. Someone they trust.”
Cal’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “You’re taking backup.”
“I’ll take Marcus and two others from the security team.”
“You’re checking in every twenty minutes.”
“Yes, dad.”
“Silas.” Cal’s voice drops. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Define stupid.”
“Starting a war with the Ramirez family without confirming they’re actually involved.”
I consider this. Maria Ramirez has been a solid partner for years. Her father before her, going back decades. The relationship predates even Charles’s time running the organization.
But someone used their equipment to create fake plates for an attack on my family.
Either they’re involved, or they’re compromised, or they’re stupid enough to let their equipment be stolen.
Any of those scenarios ends badly for them.
“I’ll get confirmation before I burn anything down,” I say finally.
“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”
I move toward the living room, crouching down in front of the couch where Parker is still holding Liam.
“I have to go handle something,” I tell her quietly.
Her eyes widen. “Silas—”
“The boys will be safe here. Jace and Cal are staying. Security’s locked down tight. No one’s getting near this house.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get answers.” I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Be careful.” Her hand catches mine, squeezing tight. “Please.”
“Always, firefly.”
I stand, ruffling Noah’s hair as I pass. “Be good for your mom and uncles, yeah?”
“You’re coming back, right?” Noah asks, his voice small.
“Promise.” I crouch down again, meeting his eyes. “I’m just going to make sure those bad people can’t come back. Then I’ll be home.”
Home.
When did this become home?
Noah nods, seemingly satisfied. Liam gives me a small wave from Parker’s lap.
Jace stands, following me to the door. “You need backup?”
“Taking Marcus and two others.” I check my weapon, making sure it’s secure. “You’re needed here more.”
“Silas.” His voice drops. “Don’t start something we can’t finish.”
“I’m going to finish what someone else started.” I meet his eyes. “Someone put those kids in danger. Made them afraid. Made them cry. Someone’s going to pay for that.”
“Just make sure it’s the right someone.”
“It will be.” I open the door, then pause. “Take care of them.”
“Always.”
I step out into the evening air, the security team immediately forming up around me. Marcus—our head of personal security—falls into step beside me as we head for the vehicles.
“Where to, boss?”
“Ramirez Auto Group.” I slide into the passenger seat of the SUV. “And Marcus? We’re going in quiet, but if things go loud, priority is getting information, not keeping anyone breathing.”
“Understood.”
The drive takes fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of running scenarios, calculating approaches, deciding how I’m going to play this.
If Maria’s compromised, I need to extract that information without letting whoever’s controlling her know we’re onto them.
If she’s complicit, I need to know why, who she’s working with, and what they want.
If she’s innocent and this is about theft or frame job, I need to know who had access to her equipment and where they are now.
Any way this goes, someone’s giving me answers.
And if they don’t give them willingly, I’ll take them by force.
The Ramirez dealership comes into view—a sprawling complex of showrooms and service bays, high-end cars gleaming under the lights. After hours now, most of the staff gone home, just a few security guards and the overnight maintenance crew.
And Maria Ramirez herself, because according to Cal’s research, she’s been working late every night this week.
Convenient.
“Marcus, you and Chen take the back entrance. Rodriguez, you’re with me. Anyone tries to leave, you stop them. Anyone tries to call out, you jam them. Clear?”
“Clear, boss.”
We move in smooth formation, years of working together making the approach effortless. I don’t draw my weapon yet—don’t want to escalate until I know what I’m walking into.
The front entrance is locked, but that’s never stopped me before. Twenty seconds with my picks and we’re in, moving through the darkened showroom, past rows of luxury vehicles, toward the offices in the back.
Light spills from under one door. Maria’s office, according to the nameplate.
I can hear her voice—on the phone, speaking rapid Spanish. My Spanish is decent enough to catch the gist.
She’s arguing with someone. About money. About a deal gone wrong. About needing more time.
Rodriguez and I position ourselves outside the door. I signal him to stay back, then push the door open smoothly.
Maria jumps, her phone clattering to the desk. Her hand goes to her drawer—where she probably keeps a weapon—but I’m already moving, crossing the distance, my hand slamming the drawer shut before she can reach it.
“Hello, Maria,” I say pleasantly. “We need to talk.”