Mason worked for his high school newspaper, called The Lincoln Sentinel. It was only four pages printed twice a month, but Mason loved investigative work because he had inherited his mother’s curiosity and my inability to leave unanswered questions alone.
Three months earlier, Mason had started researching county vehicle auctions for a civics class project. Cars seized during arrests were routinely sold at public auctions, but Mason noticed that the same three shell companies always won the bids. The companies were named Summit Recovery, Cascade Holdings, and Pine Ridge Equipment, yet all three shared a single mailing address above an abandoned laundromat.
The winning bids were absurdly low, with thirty-thousand-dollar trucks selling for four thousand dollars. Furthermore, several seized vehicles resurfaced months later at a commercial dealership owned by Sheriff Jackson’s brother-in-law.
“Why did you not tell us about this earlier, Mason?” Laura asked, her voice trembling.
“Because I knew you would force me to stop investigating,” Mason replied quietly.
“You are only eighteen years old!” Laura said angrily. “It was far too dangerous!”
“What happened tonight, Mason?” I asked, cutting through the tension.
“I saw Sheriff Jackson leave the courthouse around eight o’clock,” Mason explained. “He met Judge Wayne Thornton in the underground parking garage.”
Judge Wayne Thornton was a prominent county judge who attended charity dinners and church fundraisers, and for eleven years, I had emptied the trash cans in his judicial chambers every night.
“They drove separately to the impound lot, and I followed them on my bicycle,” Mason continued. “A black Ford truck without license plates arrived, and Jackson opened the gate while Judge Thornton handed him a thick envelope. Then a third man stepped out of the office.”
“Did you recognize that third man?” I asked.
“No, but I took several photographs of them together,” Mason answered.
“And that was when they spotted you,” I said, putting the pieces together.
Mason nodded sadly. “I tried to pedal away, but Jackson blocked the gate with his patrol car. He grabbed me, demanded my phone, and when I pushed his arm away, he drew his gun.”
Laura covered her mouth in terror. “Oh, merciful God.”
“I raised my hands immediately and told him I was just a kid,” Mason sobbed. “Then he asked for my full name, and when I told him, his entire face changed. He said, ‘Vance. Carl Vance’s boy. Your father spent seventeen years pretending he does not exist, so let us see if this wakes him up.’”
My blood ran cold as Thomas’s warning echoed in my mind. Jackson knew exactly who I was before he pulled the trigger.
“What happened next, son?” I asked, forcing my voice to remain steady.
“He made me kneel on the gravel,” Mason recalled, trembling violently. “He told the young deputy standing behind him to turn around, and then he shot my right knee. When I fell screaming, he walked around me and said he could not have me limping crooked, so he shot my left knee too.”
The heart monitor began beeping rapidly, prompting Dr. Lucas Albright to step into the room to end the questioning, but Mason grabbed my wrist with surprising strength.
“Dad, listen to me,” Mason whispered urgently. “Jackson took my phone, but I was not recording on my phone. I hid a tiny action camera inside the reflector casing under my bicycle seat, and it automatically uploads footage to my cloud account whenever it connects to library Wi-Fi.”
Simon Hayes arrived at the hospital at two in the morning, carrying a heavy laptop bag. He wrapped his arms around me in a warm embrace before looking through the glass at Mason.
“They did this to your boy, Carl?” Simon asked, his jaw tight with anger.
“Yes, they did,” I replied. “Can you access his cloud account?”
Simon set up his computer and bypassed the security protocols within minutes, bringing up fourteen video files. The first eleven were ordinary school videos, but the fourteenth file was recorded right across from the impound lot.
Through the grainy dark footage, we saw Sheriff Jackson, Judge Wayne Thornton, and the mysterious third man. Simon froze the video frame and enhanced the stranger’s face.
“Carl, look at this man,” Simon said quietly.
I leaned closer to the screen and felt my stomach drop instantly. The man was older and balding, but a distinct deep scar crossed the back of his neck. I had seen that exact scar seventeen years ago on the last night of my military career.
“His name is Victor Vance,” I stated in disbelief. “Or at least, that was his name when I knew him.”
Simon stared at me with wide eyes. “That is impossible, Carl. Victor Vance died during Operation Phantom seventeen years ago.”
“I watched the warehouse collapse on him myself,” I replied chillingly. “Yet there he is, standing in Wyoming.”
PART 4: GHOSTS FROM THE PAST
Operation Phantom was a covert mission that I had never fully disclosed to Laura because some memories are too poisonous to bring into a peaceful home. Seventeen years ago, my team was sent to capture an American logistics contractor named Victor Vance, who was selling troop movement schedules to hostile insurgent networks.
We tracked him to an abandoned warehouse near the border, but during the raid, a massive fire broke out and structural support beams collapsed. Command officially identified the charred remains as Victor Vance, and the case was closed immediately. However, I had always suspected the dental records were rushed and falsified, which prompted me to resign six weeks after Mason was born.
Now, Victor Vance was standing alive in Lincoln County alongside our sheriff and county judge.
Nina Drake connected via a secure encrypted video feed from Washington to assist us. Within forty minutes, she pulled up extensive financial records that revealed Victor Vance had assumed the identity of Victor Ross twelve years ago. Under that name, he operated a private consulting firm in Wyoming called Ross Strategic Solutions, which provided mysterious administrative services to local law enforcement.
“Lincoln County paid Ross Strategic Solutions nearly two million dollars over nine years,” Nina reported over the screen. “An official state audit was initiated three years ago, but it was abruptly canceled.”
“Who canceled the audit, Nina?” Thomas asked.
“County Judge Wayne Thornton issued a judicial order sealing the financial inquiry,” Nina revealed. “Furthermore, campaign records show Thornton received substantial donations from corporations linked to Victor Ross.”
Laura stared at the screen in disbelief. “So Mason stumbled into a massive corruption ring?”
“Your son found the edge of something much larger,” Nina corrected.
Suddenly, Thomas’s phone rang with an urgent call from his contact at the state bureau. When he hung up, his expression was grim.
“Wyatt Jackson just filed his official incident report,” Thomas announced. “He claims Mason attacked him with a heavy iron tire wrench and that he opened fire in self-defense after Mason refused multiple orders to halt.”
“That is a disgusting lie!” Laura shouted furiously.
“Jackson also claims Mason was attempting to break into seized vehicles,” Thomas added. “He stated his body camera suffered a complete electronic malfunction, but the junior deputy on scene supported his statement.”
“What is the deputy’s name?” I asked.
“Deputy Aaron Cross,” Thomas read from his notepad.
Simon quickly adjusted the bicycle camera footage and enhanced the reflection in the impound office window. The reflection clearly showed Deputy Aaron Cross standing nearby, and the red recording light on his chest camera was flashing brightly.
“Jackson lied,” Simon declared. “The deputy’s body camera was actively recording the entire incident.”
At eight o’clock the following morning, Sheriff Wyatt Jackson walked into the hospital lobby carrying a large bouquet of fresh flowers. I met him outside Mason’s room, watching him carefully as he adjusted his polished badge.
“Mr. Vance,” Jackson said smoothly. “I came to check on your son’s condition.”
“You shot my son through both knees, Jackson,” I said calmly, keeping my hands resting casually at my sides.
“There is an ongoing official investigation,” Jackson replied, offering a fake sympathetic smile. “The boy attacked a law enforcement officer, but teenagers make foolish decisions when they get scared.”
“My son had his hands raised in surrender,” I countered. “Your body camera footage will prove that clearly.”
Jackson’s smile faded slightly. “My camera malfunctioned, as I recorded in my report.”
“What about Deputy Aaron Cross’s camera?” I pressed.
Jackson stepped closer, dropping his voice to a menacing whisper. “You have been remarkably busy for a simple courthouse janitor, Carl. You should have stayed invisible.”
“Being ignored gives a man plenty of time to pay attention,” I replied smoothly.
“Your boy made a terrible mistake digging into matters that do not concern him,” Jackson warned, leaning near my ear. “Shooting him was not meant to fix his curiosity. It was meant to wake up Spectre.”
Every combat instinct I possessed screamed at me to slam Jackson against the tiled wall, but I recognized his game immediately. He wanted me to assault a law enforcement officer in a public hospital so he could portray me as a dangerous, unstable veteran and discredit my son’s claims.
I stepped backward slowly, maintaining complete control over my emotions. “You wanted me to hit you right here in front of these hospital security cameras, Jackson.”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I want a thing like that?”
