Chapter 7 - Desperate Measures
The letter changed everything.
The police were called. The FBI was brought in. General Whitmore increased our security detail to a level I hadn't experienced before. Armed guards accompanied us everywhere. Our home was swept for bugs twice a day.
But the question hung over all of us: who had sent it?
Tristan was in a maximum-security federal prison, awaiting trial. Richard and Mara Hale were in separate facilities. Their assets had been frozen. Their connections had been severed.
And yet someone was still watching me. Someone still wanted revenge.
The investigation turned up few leads. The letter had been typed on a common printer. The paper was generic. The photograph had been taken with a high-zoom lens from across the street. No fingerprints. No DNA.
"It could be anyone," the lead FBI agent told us. "A former employee of Hale Industries who lost their job and blames you. A supporter of the conspiracy theories. Someone with a grudge against the military. Until we get more evidence, we have to consider every possibility."
My father became obsessed. He barely slept. He spent hours going through lists of former Hale employees, of people who had posted angry messages online, of anyone who might have a motive.
"Dad, you need to rest," I told him one night, finding him at the kitchen table at three in the morning, surrounded by papers.
"I can't rest," he said, his eyes red. "Not while someone is threatening you. I promised I would protect you. And I failed once. I won't fail again."
Ethan was a rock through all of this. He never pushed me to talk about it when I didn't want to, but he was always there when I did. He understood fear and danger from his time as a combat surgeon. He knew what it meant to live with the possibility that something terrible could happen at any moment.
"Whatever happens," he told me, holding me tight one evening, "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
But the threats continued.
Another letter arrived a week later. This one had a photograph of my father, taken as he worked in the small garden we had planted at our new home. The message was shorter this time: "Soon."
The FBI increased surveillance. They set up cameras around our property. They monitored our communications. But still, no leads.
And then the unthinkable happened.
I was at the foundation offices, going over scholarship applications. It was a Tuesday afternoon. The sun was shining through the windows. I remember thinking how peaceful it felt, how normal, despite everything.
My security detail was outside the building. The reception area was manned. The doors were locked.
I heard the fire alarm go off.
At first, I thought it was a drill. Or a false alarm. But then I smelled smoke.
People started running. Shouting. My security guard burst into my office.
"Ms. Evans, we need to go. Now. There's a fire in the basement."
He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the stairs. The smoke was thick, stinging my eyes and throat. We could hear the fire trucks arriving outside.
We made it to the ground floor. The lobby was filled with people coughing and crying. The fire department was already there, directing everyone outside.
And that was when I saw him.
Standing across the street, blending in with the crowd of onlookers. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, but I would have recognized those eyes anywhere. The same cold, hateful eyes I had seen in the parking garage. The same eyes that belonged to the man who had attacked me.
He was looking directly at me.
And in his hand, he held a phone. He raised it, pointed it at me, and smiled.
"There!" I shouted, pointing. "That's him! The man who attacked me!"
My security guard looked. But by the time he did, the man had turned and melted into the crowd. By the time the police could cordon off the area, he was gone.
The fire was determined to be arson. Someone had set it in the basement, using an accelerant. The damage was contained, and no one was seriously hurt, but the message was clear: the person threatening us could get to us anywhere. Even in a building with security. Even in broad daylight.
The FBI now believed they were dealing with a professional. Someone who knew how to avoid surveillance. Someone who had experience with this kind of thing.
And that was when General Whitmore made a connection.
"I've been going through Hale Industries' old records," he told us at a meeting with the FBI. "They had a security department. Headed by a man named Cole Bennett. Former Special Forces. Dishonorably discharged in 2010 for running a smuggling operation out of Afghanistan. Richard Hale hired him to run 'internal security' — which, from what we can tell, meant intimidating whistleblowers, sabotaging competitors, and handling any 'problems' the family didn't want to deal with publicly."
He slid a photograph across the table. It was a military headshot. The face was younger, but the eyes were the same.
"Is this the man you saw at the foundation?" he asked me.
I looked at the photograph. My blood ran cold.
"Yes," I said. "That's him. That's the man who attacked me in the parking garage. That's the man I saw across the street."
"Cole Bennett has been off the grid for six months," General Whitmore continued. "We believe Richard Hale paid him a large sum of money before his arrest — money that wasn't in any of the accounts we froze. Enough to keep him operating for years. Bennett has no loyalty to anyone but himself. But he was well-paid by the Hales, and he seems to have decided to honor their contract. Even from prison."
The FBI agent nodded. "This changes things. Bennett is trained. Dangerous. He knows how surveillance works. He knows how to get to people. And if he's still getting instructions from Richard Hale in prison..."
He trailed off. But we all knew what he meant.
Richard Hale might have been in prison, but he still had power. Still had connections. Still had Cole Bennett.
And he wanted revenge.
My father stood up. The soldier was fully back now.
"Then we stop waiting for him to make the next move," he said. "We find him. And we end this."
Over the next week, a massive manhunt was launched for Cole Bennett. The FBI, the U.S. Marshals, military intelligence — everyone was looking for him. But he was good. Too good. He moved like a ghost. He left no trace.
And he continued to play with us.
A bouquet of dead flowers left on our porch. A message written in the condensation on my car window: "I'm closer than you think." A drone that flew over our property at night, filming us through the windows.
I was scared. I won't deny it. I jumped at every loud noise. I checked over my shoulder every time I left a building. I had trouble sleeping.
But I was also angry.
Angry that this man, this thug, this tool of the Hales, was terrorizing my family. Angry that he thought he could scare us into hiding. Angry that he was getting away with it.
And I decided I wasn't going to be a victim anymore.
I went to General Whitmore and my father with a plan.
"We keep reacting to him," I said. "He sets the fire, we respond. He leaves the flowers, we increase security. He's always one step ahead. What if we give him a target he can't resist?"
My father's eyes narrowed. "What are you thinking, Maisie?"
"The foundation is hosting its annual gala in two weeks," I said. "It's going to be a big event. Hundreds of people. Members of the military. Politicians. Celebrities. The media will be there. And I'll be there. Giving the keynote speech. In public. Without heavy security visible."
"Absolutely not," my father said immediately. "It's too dangerous. Bennett would love that kind of target."
"Exactly," I said. "He can't resist. It's the perfect opportunity for him to make a statement. To humiliate us in front of everyone. And that's exactly how we catch him. We make it look like security is light. But behind the scenes? We have the place locked down tighter than a drum. FBI agents posing as guests and staff. Snipers on the roofs. Every entrance and exit covered. He walks in, and he doesn't walk out."
General Whitmore was quiet for a long moment, studying me.
"It's risky," he said finally. "Very risky. If Bennett figures out it's a trap, he could do something desperate. If he slips through... the consequences don't bear thinking about."
"But if it works," I said, "we end this. Once and for all. No more looking over our shoulders. No more threats. No more fear."
I looked at my father. "I can't live like this forever, Dad. I won't. I'd rather face him and end it than spend the rest of my life hiding."
He looked at me, and I saw the conflict in his eyes. The father who wanted to protect his daughter from all danger, and the soldier who understood that sometimes you had to fight to be free.
Finally, he nodded.
"Okay," he said. "But we do this my way. Every detail. Every contingency. And if at any point I think it's too dangerous, we pull the plug. Agreed?"
May you like
"Agreed," I said.
General Whitmore stood up. "Then let's get to work. We have two weeks to set the trap. And we're going to make sure Cole Bennett walks right into it."
