Constance Dixon was the mastermind behind it. The FBI uncovered a network spanning four states, a boutique agency catering to the wishes of the very wealthy. Jorge and Carlton were the intermediaries. And Deborah… she was the broken link in the chain, the desperate mother raised by her own mother to treat her child as property.
But for me, legal justice was not enough.
I sat in my new, simple apartment in Boulder, watching Emma sleep through the crack in the door. She was safe, but she woke up screaming twice a week. Every time she saw silver hair, she was startled.
I contacted my old unit. Sarah, who was now working for the prison service, and Marcus, a digital genius who could make an offshore account disappear in an afternoon.
"I don't want them to die," I told Marcus over an encrypted line. "I want them to feel the walls closing in on them. Every day."
And thus began the “extracurricular” jurisdiction.
In the women's prison, Constance's "reputation" preceded her. I had ensured that the nature of her crime—the betrayal of her own blood—was whispered to the most influential inmates. She spent her days in a state of constant, shivering vigilance, her meals contaminated and her sleep disturbed by the very real threat of those she had once looked down on.
Jorge Allen's fortune was gone. Marcus found loopholes to his "charity accounts" and transferred the money to a foundation for the network's victims. Once on trial, he couldn't even afford a state's attorney. He was a king without a kingdom, mocked by the guards and oppressed by the prisoners who knew exactly who he was.
Carlton didn't stay long in the general prison ward. After his third stay in the sickbay, he requested protective custody—a cage within a cage where he could only communicate with the voices in his own head.
And Deborah… I let justice take its course. Her twelve-year prison sentence was a mercy compared to the look in Emma's eyes when she asked why Mom wasn't coming home. I burned every letter she sent. She forfeited her right to be remembered the moment she put a price tag on our daughter's soul.
Chapter 7: A New Horizon
A year later, the sun set over the Flatirons, painting the sky in shades of purple and gold. Scott sat at the barbecue while his children ran through the sprinkler with Emma. Her laugh was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard—a clear, ringing bell that signaled that darkness had finally fallen.
FBI Agent Chun sat on my porch, sipping a soda. "You know, Nicholson, we're still seeing the consequences of the evidence you presented. You undone ten years of evil in one night."
“I didn't do it for the agency,” I said, looking at Emma.
"I know. But you should know… Constance appealed again. It was rejected. She's not doing well. She lost most of her teeth in 'accidents' and is permanently in the psychiatric ward."
"Fine," I said. No regrets. No hesitation.
I walked down the stairs to the garden. Emma saw me and ran to hug me. She no longer looked like a captive bird. She looked like a child who knew she was loved.
“I love you, Daddy,” she whispered into my shirt.
"I love you more than the stars, Emmy."
I looked back at the house—a house built on truth, protected by a man who knew exactly what he was capable of. The Marine Corps taught me how to fight wars in distant lands. But being a father? That taught me how to win wars at home.
The monsters were in cages. The guard stood guard. And for the first time in eight years, I finally felt like I could breathe again.
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