The kitchen table disappeared under evidence. Forged inspector reports. Inflated contractor bids. Email trails showing coordination between board members and Thornfield companies. Three years of systematic fraud laid bare in black and white.
But Cassidy Walsh brought the piece that would make everything federal.
"Garrett," she said over the phone, "we have confirmed Delilah is using HUD housing development funds for personal projects. That makes this wire fraud, money laundering, and federal conspiracy."
She explained the timeline. Friday's live broadcast would coincide with coordinated arrests across four counties. FBI agents were already positioned. Warrants were signed. Evidence was compiled.
"Your job is simple," Cassidy continued. "Let Brooklyn steal your ATV again. We need her caught in the act with federal agents as witnesses."
Thursday evening, I made the performance of my lifetime.
Standing in my driveway, voice cracking with fake defeat, I called Brooklyn directly.
"You win," I said, making sure my voice carried to neighbors' windows. "I cannot fight anymore. The legal bills are crushing me."
"Aw, poor soldier boy giving up." Brooklyn's voice dripped mock sympathy. "Smart choice. Daddy always said you people know when you are beaten."
"I am selling the ATV tomorrow to pay my lawyer. Tonight is my last ride to the VA."
Perfect. The bait was set.
"Such a shame," she giggled. "Maybe I will buy it from you for $10. You know, charity for disabled veterans."
I hung up, knowing she had taken the bait completely.
That night, as I performed my final equipment checks, the rough texture of my prosthetic against the garage floor reminded me why this fight mattered. Not just for my stolen property, but for every veteran told to accept abuse from entitled bullies.
Jake's voice crackled through my earpiece.
"All cameras active. GPS tracker online. Federal surveillance teams in position."
Cassidy's van was parked three blocks away. Satellite uplink ready for live broadcast. FBI agents occupied the coffee shop across from the country club, waiting for Brooklyn's inevitable victory lap.
The trap was set with military precision. Multiple redundancies. Federal oversight. Media documentation. Everything needed to end the Thornfield empire in one devastating blow.
My phone buzzed with the final text from Agent Martinez.
"Mr. Steel, tomorrow we turn your neighborhood war into a federal victory. Sleep well. Justice comes at dawn."
The smell of desert night air carried promises of vindication through my open garage. Brooklyn thought stealing my ATV again would break my spirit.