**Shadows of the Forgotten Heir**
**Chapter 13: Reno Reckoning**
Interstate 80, east of Sacramento
September 21, 2018 – 11:22 a.m.
The truck ate highway like it was starving. Mark's old F-150 rattled at seventy-five, the engine note steady but tired, like it knew this wasn't a Sunday drive. Alex kept the speedometer pinned just under the limit—nothing to draw a trooper. The radio was off. No music. No distractions. Just the hum of tires and the occasional thump of expansion joints.
He'd stopped once—at a truck stop near Auburn—for gas, coffee, and a burner-phone recharge. While the tank filled, he'd called the Reno number from Victor's black book. It rang four times before a gravel voice answered.
"Voss."
"Harlan Voss?"
A short pause. "Who's asking?"
"Someone Victor Kane paid triple to make disappear."
Silence stretched long enough that Alex thought the line had died.
Then: "You're Thorne."
"I am."
Another beat. "You got balls calling me direct."
"I've got more than that. I've got Victor's little black book. Your name's circled. Triple rate. Thirty-minute window. I know what you do for a living, Voss. And I know you're ex-Delta. Which means you're not stupid."
Voss gave a low chuckle—dry, without humor. "Flattery won't buy you time, kid."
"I'm not buying time. I'm buying information. Where's Victor?"
"Why the hell would I tell you?"
"Because if you don't, I send your name, your number, your last three jobs—pulled from Victor's files—to every federal agency with jurisdiction over contract killing. You'll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder for badges instead of bounties."
Voss was quiet again. Then: "You're bluffing."
"Try me."
A long exhale. "He's in Reno. Motel 6 off Mill Street. Room 214. Checked in under cash, no ID. He's waiting on me to confirm your body before he moves again. Said he wants proof—photo, something personal. He's twitchy. Paranoid. Armed. And he's drinking."
Alex absorbed it. "You going to finish the job?"
Voss laughed again—short, sharp. "Not for him. Not anymore. He's radioactive. Word's spreading fast—your little newspaper friend made sure of that. I'm out. But if you show up at that motel, he'll shoot first. He's got a .45 and nothing left to lose."
"Thanks for the heads-up."
"Don't thank me. I'm not doing you a favor. I'm just not doing him one either."
The line clicked dead.
Alex set the burner on the passenger seat. Kept driving.
Reno appeared on the horizon just after two—casino towers glinting in the high-desert sun like broken teeth. He exited onto Mill Street, found the Motel 6—a low, faded two-story block with peeling green paint and a half-working neon sign. Room 214 was upstairs, curtains drawn, door closed.
Alex parked two buildings down at a strip-mall laundromat, killed the engine, and sat for ten minutes watching. No movement. No Escalade in sight—Victor must have ditched it after the shootings. Smart. Or desperate.
He got out, walked the long way around—through an alley, past dumpsters that smelled of stale beer and Chinese takeout. Climbed the exterior stairs at the far end of the motel. Room 214 was third from the end.
He listened at the door. Muffled television—news channel, volume low. The faint clink of glass on wood. Breathing—uneven, heavy.
Alex stepped to the side, back flat against the wall beside the door. Knocked twice—firm, not aggressive.
Silence.
Then footsteps. Slow. Cautious.
"Who is it?"
Victor's voice—thicker than usual, edged with bourbon.
"Housekeeping," Alex said flatly.
A beat. Then the door cracked open—chain still on, barrel of a .45 visible in the gap.
Victor's eye appeared—bloodshot, wide.
Alex didn't wait.
He drove his boot into the door just above the chain. Wood splintered. Chain snapped. Victor staggered back, pistol coming up.
Alex was already inside.
He caught Victor's wrist mid-raise, twisted hard. The .45 clattered across cheap carpet. Victor swung a wild left hook—sloppy, drunk. Alex slipped it, countered with a short jab to the solar plexus. Victor folded, gasping.
Alex kicked the door shut behind him. Locked it.
Victor dropped to his knees, clutching his stomach, face red.
Alex stood over him—calm, breathing even.
"Get up."
Victor coughed once, spat on the carpet. "You… son of a bitch."
Alex grabbed the front of Victor's shirt, hauled him to his feet, shoved him into the single chair by the small round table. A half-empty bottle of Jack sat beside a glass and a Glock—different one, smaller, probably a backup.
Alex picked up the Glock, cleared it, pocketed the magazine.
Victor wiped blood from his lip—must have bitten it on the way down. "You think this changes anything? The feds are coming. My life's over. But yours—" He laughed, wet and ragged. "You killed three men last night. Self-defense? In your own house? They'll bury you."
Alex pulled the other chair around, sat facing him—close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath.
"I've got nothing to hide," Alex said. "You do."
Victor's eyes flicked to the door, then back. "Victoria left me. Took the boys. Because of you."
"Because of you," Alex corrected. "You built a house of cards on lies and bodies. She finally saw the blood on the foundation."
Victor leaned forward, voice dropping to a hiss. "You were nothing. A banished rich kid with a broken engagement. I gave her everything. Security. Status. A future."
"You gave her fear," Alex said. "And now it's gone."
Victor stared at him—really looked—for the first time since Alex had walked back into Willow Creek.
"You hate me that much?"
Alex's expression didn't change. "I don't hate you, Victor. Hate takes energy. I just want you gone. From her life. From Mark's. From the town. From every place you poisoned."
Victor laughed again—bitter, broken. "Then shoot me. Get it over with."
Alex stood slowly. Walked to the window. Parted the curtain an inch. Outside: parking lot, traffic, normal life moving on.
"I'm not going to shoot you," he said.
Victor frowned. "Then what—"
"You're going to confess."
Victor blinked.
Alex turned back. "Everything. The bribes. The foreclosures. The orders to Holt. The hit on me. You're going to record it—right here, right now. Then you're going to walk out of this room, drive to the nearest FBI field office, and turn yourself in. You'll tell them you acted alone. No mention of Voss. No mention of the men last night. You take the full weight."
Victor stared. "Why the hell would I do that?"
"Because if you don't," Alex said quietly, "I send every file I have—your black book, the recordings, the transfers, the offshore accounts—to every media outlet in the country. Not just the Tribune. CNN. The Times. Fox. Everyone. Your name becomes synonymous with corruption and murder. Your children grow up knowing their father was a monster. Victoria testifies against you. Mark does. Lydia does. Carver does. You'll die in prison anyway—old, alone, hated. Or you confess now. Controlled. You plead. You cooperate. You get a deal. Maybe twenty-five to life instead of death row. Your kids remember a father who at least tried to make it right."
Victor's face crumpled—slowly, like paper in a fist.
Tears welled. He wiped them angrily.
Alex pulled the small digital recorder from his pocket—the same one Carver had given him. Set it on the table. Pressed record.
"Start talking."
Victor looked at the red light.
Then he began.
Names. Dates. Amounts. Orders. Everything.
Alex stood by the door, arms crossed, listening.
When Victor finished—voice hoarse, face wet—he reached out and stopped the recording himself.
Alex pocketed it.
"Get up."
Victor stood on shaky legs.
Alex opened the door.
"FBI's in Reno. Field office on South Virginia Street. Walk in. Ask for Special Agent Ramirez. Tell him Alexander Thorne sent you. Give him this."
He handed Victor the recorder.
Victor took it like it weighed a hundred pounds.
"You could've killed me," he said.
"I still can," Alex replied. "Don't make me regret the choice."
Victor stepped outside.
Sunlight hit his face. He squinted.
Then he started walking—slow, unsteady—toward the parking lot.
Alex watched until he turned the corner.
Then he closed the door.
Sat on the bed.
Exhaled—for the first time in days, it felt like.
The war wasn't over.
But the king had fallen.
And the forgotten heir had just claimed the board.
(End of Chapter 13)