Chapter 2 - The Amber Light and the FalloutFor the next eighteen minutes, my mother tried to restart dinner.
She sliced more roast beef, though the meat had gone gray and cold around the edges. She urged everyone to take another roll, her voice pitched just a little too high, her eyes darting nervously between Brandon and me.
My father tried to steer the conversation back to football, recalling a playoff game from three winters ago that nobody cared about anymore. His voice echoed hollowly against the dining room walls.
Brandon carried on as if nothing had happened, chewing loudly, recounting a conversation he’d had with a customer who wanted to trade in a rusted sedan for an SUV. He leaned back in his chair, gesturing with his fork, completely oblivious to the ticking clock inside my head.
Megan sat rigidly beside him. She hadn't touched her wine, and her gaze remained fixed on her plate. She knew something was wrong. She knew Brandon’s financial panic better than anyone, and she knew the casual swagger he wore like a cheap suit was entirely synthetic.
I sat quietly, my hands folded in my lap, breathing in and out through my nose.
Tick. Tock.
Every second that ticked by felt like an unexploded charge sitting beneath the floorboards. My government-issued asset wasn't just a computer; it was an encrypted gateway containing isolated tokens, telemetry pathways, and operational parameters linked directly to the cyber threat analysis division. Even powered down, the drive housed secure keys that foreign intelligence agencies would pay millions to acquire. And my genius older brother had traded it on an internet marketplace for five hundred dollars like it was an old blender he didn't want to clean.
My phone buzzed silently against my thigh.
I slid it out beneath the table edge, shielding the screen with my palm.
Team in position. Subject must not leave.
A cold wave of adrenaline washed over me. I placed the phone face down beside my water glass.
“Ethan, you’re not eating,” my mother observed, her tone sliding from irritation to worry. “Is it work? Are you working on a weekend again? I swear, those people treat you like a slave.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I said, my voice eerily steady.
“You look pale,” Megan murmured, her eyes finally meeting mine across the table. There was a desperate, searching quality in her gaze, as if she wanted me to pull the fire alarm so she wouldn't have to listen to another one of Brandon’s lies.
Before I could answer, someone knocked firmly on the front door.
It wasn't a polite knock. It was a heavy, authoritative rap that rattled the glass in the front sidelights.
My father pushed back his chair, his brow furrowing in irritation. “Who on earth is that at this hour? Did someone leave their lights on in the driveway?”
He stood up, smoothing down his sweater, and crossed the hallway toward the foyer.
I didn't move. I kept my eyes fixed on the tablecloth, watching the flickering amber glow of the pendant light cast long, distorted shadows across the salt and pepper shakers.
Dad pulled the front door open.
“Can I help you?” his voice boomed, welcoming and slightly confused.
Nobody answered him verbally. Instead, heavy boots stepped across the threshold, their rubber soles squeaking slightly on the hardwood floor.
I slowly raised my head.
Six figures filled the wide entranceway of my parents’ suburban home. They wore dark tactical jackets over civilian clothes, utility belts fitted with restrained gear, and unmistakable yellow block letters emblazoned across their backs and chests: FBI.
My father stumbled backward, his hand catching the edge of the hall table to steady himself. His face drained of color until he looked like dry plaster.
“What... what is this?” my father stammered, his voice cracking.
One of the agents stepped forward—a woman in her forties with sharp dark hair pulled back into a severe bun, her eyes scanning the dining room with absolute, unblinking efficiency.
“Mr. Cole?” she called out, her voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel.
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Brandon froze halfway through lifting a bite of roast beef to his mouth. The fork slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against his porcelain plate.
“Is Brandon Cole inside?” she asked.
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