**Shadows of the Forgotten Heir**
**Chapter 8: The First Strike**
Willow Creek, California
September 12, 2018
The black Escalade returned at 2:14 a.m.
Alex heard it before he saw it—the low growl of a V8 idling two blocks away, then the slow creep of tires on asphalt. He was already awake, sitting in the same kitchen chair, back to the wall, Ka-Bar resting flat across his thighs. The bungalow lights were off. Curtains drawn. Only the faint blue glow from the stove clock lit the room.
He didn't move when the vehicle stopped directly in front. Engine cut. Doors opened—two, maybe three. Boots on pavement. Low voices, clipped and professional.
Alex counted heartbeats.
The front porch creaked under weight.
A shadow passed the window—broad shoulders, baseball cap pulled low.
Then the doorbell rang. Not a polite press. A hard, deliberate thumb that held for five full seconds.
Alex waited.
A second ring. Longer.
Then a voice through the door—calm, almost conversational.
"Thorne. Open up. We just want to talk."
Alex recognized the cadence. Deputy Chief Raymond Holt. The same voice from Carver's recording.
No answer.
A soft knock followed—three measured taps with knuckles.
"Last chance, soldier boy. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
Silence.
Then the sound Alex had been waiting for: metal scraping metal. A slim jim sliding between door and frame. The lock clicked.
The door eased open.
Three silhouettes filled the doorway—Holt in front, flanked by two deputies Alex didn't recognize. Flashlights clicked on, beams slicing through the dark.
Holt stepped inside first, hand resting on the butt of his holstered Glock.
"Thorne?"
Alex spoke from the shadows to their left, voice low and even.
"You're in my house uninvited, Chief. That's trespassing."
The beams swung toward him.
Alex sat motionless in the chair, legs crossed, knife still across his lap. The light caught the scar on his jaw, turned his eyes into pale ice.
Holt's face tightened. "We received a noise complaint. Possible disturbance."
"At two-fourteen in the morning?" Alex tilted his head slightly. "Must be a hell of a neighbor."
One of the deputies—a stocky kid with a fresh academy haircut—shifted uncomfortably. The other, older, kept his hand near his taser.
Holt took another step forward. "We also have reason to believe you're in possession of stolen property. Evidence related to an ongoing investigation."
Alex's lips curved—just a fraction. Not a smile. Something colder.
"You mean the recording of your boss telling you to make me disappear?"
Holt froze for half a heartbeat. Then his face hardened.
"Stand up. Hands where I can see them."
Alex didn't move.
"I said stand up."
Alex spoke slowly, each word deliberate.
"You're making a mistake, Holt. Right now you've got plausible deniability. Forced entry on a noise complaint. Bad intel. You walk out that door, you can still pretend this never happened. You take one more step, you cross a line you can't uncross."
Holt's jaw worked. "You threatening a peace officer?"
"No." Alex uncrossed his legs, set the Ka-Bar carefully on the table beside him. "I'm stating facts."
The younger deputy glanced at Holt. "Chief?"
Holt ignored him. "You've got five seconds to stand, or we do this the hard way."
Alex exhaled once—slow, controlled.
Then he stood.
All six-foot-three of him unfolded like a predator rising from cover. Shoulders wide enough to block half the doorway light. The deputies instinctively took half a step back.
Holt didn't.
He drew his Glock—slow, deliberate, muzzle down but ready.
"Hands behind your back. Now."
Alex raised both hands slowly, palms out.
"You sure you want to do this in here?" he asked quietly. "Small room. Lots of furniture. Things could get… messy."
Holt's eyes flicked to the knife on the table. Then back to Alex.
"Cuff him," he told the older deputy.
The deputy hesitated.
Holt's voice sharpened. "Do it."
The man stepped forward, cuffs in hand.
Alex waited until the deputy was within arm's reach.
Then he moved.
It wasn't fast in the Hollywood sense—no dramatic spin, no flying kick. Just efficient. Brutal. Inevitable.
He caught the deputy's wrist mid-reach, twisted, stepped inside the man's guard, and drove an elbow into the solar plexus. The deputy folded with a choked gasp. Alex stripped the cuffs from limp fingers, spun the man, and used him as a shield—arm locked around the throat, just tight enough to control.
Holt raised the Glock.
"Don't!"
The younger deputy fumbled for his own weapon.
Alex's voice cut through the room like a blade.
"Guns down. Or I snap his neck. Your call."
Holt's finger hovered over the trigger. Sweat gleamed on his upper lip.
"You wouldn't."
Alex tightened his hold just enough. The deputy wheezed.
"Try me."
Seconds stretched.
Then Holt lowered the pistol—slowly.
"Easy," he said. "Easy."
Alex kept his eyes on Holt. "Drop it. Kick it over."
Holt hesitated.
Alex applied pressure. The deputy gurgled.
Holt dropped the Glock. Kicked it across the floor.
"Now the taser. And your backup."
They complied. Metal clattered on linoleum.
Alex released the deputy. The man collapsed to his knees, coughing, clutching his throat.
Alex stepped over him, picked up the Glock, ejected the magazine, cleared the chamber, and set the empty weapon on the table beside the Ka-Bar.
He looked at Holt.
"Sit."
Holt didn't move.
Alex's voice dropped lower. "I said sit."
Holt sat—slowly—on the edge of the couch like it might bite him.
The younger deputy stayed frozen near the door.
Alex addressed him without looking.
"You. Outside. Wait in the car. If you radio anyone, if you move, if you even breathe wrong, your chief doesn't leave this house upright. Clear?"
The kid nodded jerkily and backed out.
The door clicked shut.
Alex turned back to Holt.
"You came here to intimidate me. Maybe rough me up. Maybe plant something. Maybe worse. That was your first mistake."
Holt's eyes were hard, but there was sweat on his temples now.
"My second mistake?"
"Underestimating me."
Alex crouched so they were eye-level.
"I have the recording. I have the bank transfer. I have Carver's full file—every dirty deal you've signed off on for Victor in the last three years. I've already sent copies to people who aren't on Victor's payroll. If anything happens to me—or to Carver, or Mark, or Lydia Sullivan—those files go public. Not to the Tribune. To the FBI field office in Sacramento. To the state attorney general. To every news outlet between here and D.C."
Holt swallowed.
Alex continued.
"You have one play left. Go back to Victor. Tell him the quiet way didn't work. Tell him the next move is his—but warn him: if he escalates, I escalate harder. And I don't bluff."
Holt stared at him for a long beat.
"You're not the same kid who left town."
"No," Alex said. "I'm not."
He stood.
"Get up. Take your people. Leave the weapons. Walk out like nothing happened."
Holt rose slowly.
"And if I don't?"
Alex's expression didn't change.
"Then tonight ends differently for all of us."
Holt looked at the two deputies—one still on the floor, wheezing; the other waiting outside like a scared kid.
He nodded once.
They filed out—Holt last. He paused in the doorway.
"This isn't over, Thorne."
Alex met his gaze.
"It never was."
The door closed.
Alex stood motionless until the Escalade's engine started and the taillights disappeared down the street.
Then he locked the door.
Picked up the Glock and the taser.
Carried them to the kitchen sink.
And began disassembling them—methodical, practiced, the way he'd been taught in a desert half a world away.
Outside, the night returned to quiet.
But the balance had shifted.
Victor Kane had just received his first real warning.
And Alex Thorne was done waiting.
(End of Chapter 8)