Chapter 5 - My Brother’s PriceThe alarm lasted ninety seconds.
It felt longer.
Military police locked down the building while agents searched every room, parking lot, and access point.
Eric wasn’t inside.
The SUV had disappeared before officers reached the road.
The escape itself sounded impossible until Campbell explained it.
Eric had not broken out of a cell.
He had been released temporarily from the interview room after investigators determined they lacked sufficient grounds to hold him beyond the initial detention period.
Agents planned to maintain surveillance.
Eric apparently knew.
Somebody picked him up within eleven minutes.
Dad stared at Campbell.
“You let him walk?”
“We followed the law.”
“He threatened my daughter.”
“The threat came afterward.”
Dad paced like a caged animal.
I understood his frustration.
I also understood Campbell’s position.
Rules matter most when breaking them would be convenient.
Otherwise they aren’t rules.
By midnight, investigators identified the SUV.
Registered to Caleb Voss, owner of Voss Meridian Consulting.
I recognized the name.
Voss Meridian had worked on logistics contracts in Afghanistan.
More importantly, one of its subcontractors had appeared in the procurement investigation connected to the flight case.
Eric had not stumbled into some random intelligence broker.
He had been swimming near the center of the network for years.
The following morning, Diane made bail.
Her attorney released a statement before she even left the courthouse.
It claimed she had suffered “an acute emotional response after years of provocation.”
Apparently my arm had provoked the chair.
The statement also accused the Army of using the ceremony to humiliate a civilian family.
The internet reacted exactly as you would expect.
Video of the assault had leaked overnight.
One clip showed Diane raising the chair.
Another showed me falling.
A third captured General Hayes telling her I had saved his life.
Millions of views.
Headlines everywhere.
GENERAL DEFENDS PURPLE HEART CAPTAIN AFTER FAMILY ATTACK.
STEPMOTHER ARRESTED AFTER CEREMONY CHAOS.
WHO IS CAPTAIN CAROLINE BENNETT?
I hated all of it.
By lunchtime, reporters were outside the gate.
Ruiz visited and brought me sunglasses.
“Why?”
“So you can look mysterious.”
“I have a broken arm, not a celebrity contract.”
He tossed the glasses onto the table.
“You’re trending.”
“I’d rather have malaria.”
“Give Twitter another day.”
I smiled despite myself.
Then his expression became serious.
“Campbell told me about Eric.”
“He’s scared.”
“Scared men do stupid things.”
“Eric does stupid things when he’s relaxed.”
“Fair.”
Ruiz sat.
“You need to understand something.”
“What?”
“Your brother may blame you for all of this, but none of it started with you.”
I looked away.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“You have that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you decide every disaster in a five-mile radius is somehow your personal responsibility.”
I sighed.
Before I could answer, Dad entered.
He carried a cardboard box.
“What’s that?”
“Things from home.”
He placed it on the table.
Inside were photographs.
My mother’s recipe book.
My high school yearbook.
A small wooden jewelry box I hadn’t seen in years.
“You kept these?”
Dad nodded.
“Diane wanted to clear the attic.”
The answer was obvious.
“You left her.”
He sat.
“I told her I’m filing for divorce.”
Even Ruiz looked surprised.
Dad continued.
“She said I was choosing you over her.”
“What did you say?”
“That I should have chosen my daughter years ago.”
I didn’t know what to do with that.
Part of me had wanted those words since childhood.
Another part resented how good they felt.
“Dad…”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
His voice was steady.
“I’m going to earn whatever relationship you’re willing to have.”
That sounded more meaningful than an apology.
Before I could answer, Campbell entered quickly.
“Captain, we need you.”
She placed photographs across the table.
Security camera images.
Eric.
Voss.
A gas station forty miles west.
Timestamped 6:12 that morning.
“They’re moving south,” she said.
“Toward what?”
“We don’t know.”
Then she showed another image.
A rural storage facility.
“This unit was rented under one of Eric’s aliases.”
My father looked stunned.
“He has aliases?”
“Three that we know of.”
Inside the unit, agents found equipment.
Phones.
Hard drives.
Forged credentials.
And a photograph of me.
Not from military records.
A childhood picture.
I was sixteen, standing beside Dad at a lake.
Someone had drawn a red circle around my face.
Dad sat down.
“Where did he get that?”
“My house,” he whispered.
The photo had once been framed in his study.
The truth hit him visibly.
Eric hadn’t merely used Dad’s computer.
He had used Dad’s home as supply.
Campbell placed another item on the table.
A handwritten ledger.
Payments.
Dates.
Initials.
One set appeared repeatedly.
CB.
My initials.
Beside each entry were amounts.
Twenty thousand.
Fifteen thousand.
Thirty-five thousand.
Dad whispered, “He sold information about you.”
“For almost two years,” Campbell said.
I examined the dates.
One made me stop.
Three weeks before the helicopter crash.
Payment: $50,000.
Description: Route confirmation.
My stomach dropped.
“Campbell.”
“I saw it.”
“That was before the crash.”
“Yes.”
Eric hadn’t accidentally contributed after the fact.
He had been paid before Hayes’ helicopter went down.
Dad understood.
“You said you didn’t know whether he knew what his information would be used for.”
Campbell’s expression remained careful.
“We know more now.”
My father whispered, “He knew.”
“We don’t have enough evidence yet to establish that.”
“He took fifty thousand dollars.”
“That establishes a payment. We still need context.”
I stood.
Pain shot through my arm.
Ruiz caught my shoulder.
“Easy.”
I stared at the ledger.
All those years Eric mocked my career.
All those jokes about me being insignificant.
He knew enough about my work to sell pieces of it.
That was when Campbell’s phone rang.
She listened.
Her face changed.
“Where?”
Another pause.
“Secure the scene.”
She disconnected.
“What happened?” I asked.
“They found Voss’s SUV.”
Dad stood.
“And Eric?”
“Gone.”
“Voss?”
Campbell hesitated.
“Dead.”
Silence.
“How?”
“Gunshot.”
Dad whispered, “Eric?”
“We don’t know.”
But we all thought the same thing.
The investigation had changed.
Eric was no longer merely an irresponsible middleman.
He might be a fugitive involved in murder.
Then Campbell’s phone buzzed again.
She looked.
A photograph had been emailed to her.
She showed me.
A roadside surveillance camera captured a man walking away from the SUV.
Eric.
Carrying a black duffel bag.
And tucked beneath his arm was something that made my heart race.
A military-style hard case.
The same type used to transport encrypted storage equipment.
Campbell said, “We believe Voss may have kept records of the entire network.”
Dad asked, “And Eric has them?”
“Possibly.”
I looked at the direction he was walking.
South.
Then I realized something.
“There’s an airfield thirty miles from there.”
Campbell looked at me.
“You know it?”
“Private charter traffic.”
Her eyes sharpened.
Within seconds, she was calling agents.
The airfield was alerted.
Roadblocks went up.
But Eric never arrived.
At 3:18 that afternoon, my father received a text.
One sentence.
Bring Carrie to Mom’s lake house or I send everything.
Dad handed me the phone.
Campbell read it.
“What does he mean by everything?”
Dad shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
I did.
The lake house.
The childhood photograph.
Something clicked.
When I was sixteen, Eric and I spent a summer at Diane’s family cabin near Lake Mercer.
He had hidden stolen cash beneath a loose floorboard.
I found it.
He begged me not to tell.
I did anyway.
Diane blamed me for “turning siblings against each other.”
Eric never forgot.
The cabin was isolated.
Eight miles from the nearest paved highway.
And there was one more detail.
A small private dock.
I looked at Campbell.
“He isn’t planning to fly.”
She understood.
“He’s going by water.”
My father said, “Going where?”
I looked at the map.
The lake connected through a navigable river system to three counties.
Plenty of isolated landing points.
Eric didn’t want the cabin as a destination.
He wanted it as an exit.
Campbell said, “You are not going.”
The text arrived again.
This time with an attachment.
A photograph.
Diane.
Sitting inside the lake house.
Her hands tied behind a chair.
Dad went rigid.
Campbell swore.
Another message appeared.
One hour. Carrie comes alone.
Dad looked at me.
Despite everything Diane had done…
despite the chair…
despite twenty years of cruelty…
I knew what I was going to do.
Campbell knew too.
“No.”
I met her eyes.
“We use me.”
“You have a broken arm.”
“I’ve worked with worse.”
“This isn’t Kandahar.”
“No.”
I looked at the photograph of my stepmother.
May you like
“It’s family.”
And somehow that felt more dangerous.
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