I didn’t consult Arthur. I didn’t calculate the social fallout. I bypassed emergency services entirely, dialing a contact labeled simply as Morrison.
Jack Morrison was a former federal agent turned elite private intelligence contractor. He specialized in the toxic, complex messes that standard law enforcement frequently fumbled. We had collaborated on a massive, multi-million dollar racketeering investigation back in the early two-thousands. He had looked me in the eye upon my retirement and promised that if I ever needed a ghost, I only had to ring.
The line clicked alive on the second ring. A voice like crushed gravel spoke. “Mitchell. That you?”
“I need your team at my residence. Immediately. Bring anyone you trust with a badge,” I commanded, my voice devoid of any tremor. I rattled off my suburban address.
“What is the situation, El?”
I locked eyes with Derek, who was currently standing over my cowering daughter like a triumphant gladiator. “An active domestic assault. And Jack? My gut is screaming that there is a massive secondary element to this. Secure the perimeter when you arrive.”
“Rolling. Lock the doors. Nobody leaves.”
I terminated the call and slipped the phone back into my pocket. Derek was glaring daggers at me now, his chest heaving with adrenaline.
“Who the hell did you just call, you crazy old woman?” he spat.
“Someone who is going to facilitate a profoundly uncomfortable conversation with you,” I replied, my voice eerily calm as I stepped around the shattered glass to reach Sarah. I knelt beside her, pulling her trembling frame into my chest. “I’ve got you, my sweet girl. You are safe now.”
Derek threw his head back and barked a harsh, ugly laugh. “You think calling the local beat cops is going to alter anything? This is a private dispute between a husband and his wife. This is my property, my business.”
