**Shadows of the Forgotten Heir**
**Chapter 12: Ashes and Accusations**
Willow Creek, California
September 21, 2018 – 4:47 a.m.
The first patrol car arrived with lights off, rolling to a quiet stop at the curb. Deputy Ramirez—no relation to Diego, just a coincidence of surnames—stepped out, flashlight already sweeping the porch. He saw the open front door, the dark smear on the threshold that looked too much like blood in the predawn gray. His hand dropped to his holster.
"Dispatch, this is Ramirez. Possible 10-71 at 412 Elm. Request backup and supervisor. Scene appears to have shots fired."
He didn't enter. Smart. He waited.
Within ten minutes the street was blocked—three patrol cars, an unmarked sedan, yellow tape going up like ribbon on a bad birthday present. Neighbors stood on lawns in bathrobes, phones raised, recording the slow-motion circus.
Deputy Chief Raymond Holt arrived last. Face drawn, uniform rumpled, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep or too much scotch. He ducked under the tape, nodded to the crime-scene tech already photographing the porch.
"Thorne inside?" he asked.
Ramirez shook his head. "House is empty. Two bodies in the living room. One in the kitchen doorway. All deceased. Looks like a home invasion gone sideways. Suppressed weapons. Professional work."
Holt's jaw tightened. "Any sign of Thorne?"
"Negative. No blood trail leading out. No vehicle in the driveway—neighbor says he's been borrowing a friend's truck. Friend's name is Reilly. We're trying to reach him."
Holt stared at the open door. "Secure the scene. No one in or out until I say. And find Thorne. Now."
Inside the bungalow the air was thick with cordite and copper. The bodies lay where they fell: one slumped against the wall with two neat holes in his chest, another sprawled in the doorway with a third in the forehead. The third man—broken wrist, crushed windpipe—curled fetal near the island. No wallets. No IDs. Gloves still on their hands.
Holt crouched beside the one with the head shot. Studied the entry wound. Clean. Precise. Military.
He stood, wiped his palms on his pants even though they weren't dirty.
His radio crackled.
"Chief, this is Jenkins. Got a witness. Elderly lady across the street. Says she saw a black panel van leave fast around eight-fifteen. Also saw a black SUV parked down the block earlier—same make as Kane's. She thinks it left right after the van."
Holt's face went still.
"Get her statement. Word for word. And pull any traffic cam footage from the highway exits. Last two hours."
He stepped outside.
The sky was turning the color of old bruises.
Mark Reilly's truck screeched to a halt at the tape line. Mark jumped out, still in yesterday's T-shirt, eyes wild.
"What the hell happened?"
Holt walked over, expression carefully neutral. "Your friend's house. Multiple fatalities. Thorne's missing."
Mark's face drained. "He was here last night. I talked to him around seven. Said he was staying in."
Holt studied him. "You see anyone suspicious?"
Mark shook his head. "No. But he knew something was coming. He told me to stay clear."
Holt's eyes narrowed. "He told you to stay clear. Interesting."
Mark bristled. "Don't twist it, Holt. Alex isn't the one who sent killers to his own house."
"We'll see." Holt turned away. "Don't leave town."
Mark watched him go, fists clenched.
Across town, in a windowless storage unit on the industrial edge of Willow Creek, Alex sat on an overturned crate under a single hanging bulb. The unit smelled of old cardboard and motor oil. Mark's truck was parked inside beside a tarp-covered shape. On the crate in front of him: the 9mm, two fresh magazines, Carver's recorder, a burner phone, and a folded newspaper hot off the press.
The Valley Tribune headline screamed in thick black type:
**LOCAL DEVELOPER LINKED TO BRIBERY, FRAUD, POSSIBLE MURDER-FOR-HIRE**
*Exclusive: Audio, Documents Show Payments to Sheriff's Officials*
By Lydia Sullivan
Alex had read it twice. Lydia had held nothing back. Names. Dates. The $15,000 transfer. Excerpts from the recording—carefully redacted to protect Carver's identity. A sidebar on the Whitaker foreclosure. Another on the Reilly farm. No mention of last night's shootings. Not yet.
His phone buzzed—new burner.
Lydia.
He answered.
"You see it?" she asked.
"Front page. Good work."
"FBI's already called. Sacramento field office. They want everything. I'm meeting them at ten."
Alex nodded to himself. "Good. Give them Carver's full file. Tell them about the break-in last night. Tell them I'm alive. Tell them I'll turn myself in for questioning—after I finish what I started."
A pause. "Alex… three bodies in your house. That's not self-defense. That's a massacre."
"They came armed. They broke in. I defended myself."
"You executed them."
"I ended the threat." His voice was flat. "There's a difference."
Lydia exhaled. "Victor's gone dark. No one's seen him since last night. His Escalade was spotted heading north on 99 around nine-thirty. No plates on the cameras."
Alex's grip tightened on the phone. "He's running."
"Or regrouping. He still has money. Connections. People who owe him favors."
Alex stood. "Then I'll find him."
"Don't do anything stupid. The feds are involved now. Let them handle it."
Alex looked at the tarp-covered shape in the corner. "They'll be too slow. And Victor won't wait."
He ended the call.
Walked to the tarp. Pulled it back.
Underneath: Victor's black Escalade—stolen from the Crestview driveway at 2:17 a.m. while Victor was still inside discovering his empty house. Alex had hot-wired it in under ninety seconds, driven it here, wiped it down.
In the passenger seat: a leather portfolio Victor had left on the console. Inside—more documents. Offshore accounts. Shell companies. Names of officials in three counties. A list of "consultants" with dollar amounts beside them. One name circled in red: Harlan Voss. Ex-Delta. Freelance now. Triple rate noted.
Alex stared at the name.
Then he opened the glove box.
Inside: a spare key fob, a .45 magazine, and a small black book—Victor's personal contacts. Handwritten. Encrypted initials beside most entries.
Alex flipped to the V section.
Voss, H. – 775 area code. Reno.
He memorized the number.
Then he covered the Escalade again.
Picked up the 9mm.
Checked the chamber.
Slid it into the holster.
Outside, the sun was fully up, turning the storage unit's metal door into a dull silver mirror.
Alex stepped out, locked the padlock, walked to Mark's truck.
He started the engine.
North on 99.
Toward Reno.
Toward the man Victor had hired to kill him.
The radio played low—classic rock, static on the edges.
Alex didn't sing along.
He just drove.
Steady.
Unhurried.
The hunter now the hunted.
But only for a little while longer.
(End of Chapter 12)