Marcus spent three days reading everything he could find. Urban warfare tactics. Surveillance methods. How to make improvised weapons from household items. The internet was full of information if you knew where to look.
Most of it was garbage. Keyboard warriors talking tough behind usernames. But some threads had real knowledge. Ex-military guys sharing techniques. Police officers discussing criminal behavior patterns. Even a few posts that seemed to come from people who'd actually done this kind of work.
The key was preparation, they all agreed. Know your target. Know the terrain. Have an exit plan. Never go in blind.
Marcus studied the photos on Chloe's camera until he had them memorized. The faces. The locations he could identify. The basement where they'd held her looked familiar, but he couldn't place it.
On Saturday morning, he told his parents he was going to the library to work on a history project. Another lie to add to his growing collection. Instead, he walked downtown and started mapping Torrino territory.
The electronics shop where he'd met Nico. A restaurant called Mama Leone's. A dry cleaner. A check cashing place. All connected by those black and gold signs. All probably fronts for money laundering.
Marcus bought a coffee from the diner across the street and sat by the window. From there he could watch the electronics shop. Nico appeared around noon, carrying another box of components. He looked tired. Worried about something.
Twenty minutes later, a black SUV pulled up. The same one from the bridge. Three men got out, including Julio. They went inside. Marcus could see them through the shop window, talking to Nico. The conversation looked tense.
When they left, Nico stood in the doorway for a long time. His shoulders sagged like he was carrying the world's weight.
Marcus wanted to go over. To ask if he was okay. But Chloe's warning echoed in his head. Don't trust anyone. Not even someone who seemed innocent.
That night, Marcus lay in bed staring at the ceiling. His research had taught him plenty about surveillance and tactics. But it hadn't answered the most important question: where to start?
The Torrino operation was huge. Dozens of businesses. Corrupt cops. Judges and politicians on their payroll. How could one seventeen-year-old kid make a dent in something like that?
Then he remembered something from one of the military forums. A quote from some ancient Chinese general: "The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."
Start small. Hit them where they were weakest. Make them notice.
Marcus rolled out of bed and turned on his laptop. He pulled up a map of Millbrook and started marking locations. Red dots for confirmed Torrino businesses. Yellow for suspected ones. Blue for places mentioned in the forum posts about their operations.
A pattern emerged. The businesses formed a rough circle around downtown, with spokes extending toward the residential areas. Like a web with Vincent Torrino's house at the center.
But there was a gap on the east side. Only two businesses in that area. One was a pawn shop called Lucky's. The other was a small warehouse that used to store farm equipment.
Marcus zoomed in on the warehouse. According to county records, it belonged to Torrino Imports. But the building looked abandoned. Overgrown weeds. Broken windows. Perfect place to hide things you didn't want found.
He studied satellite images and street views until he knew every entrance and exit. The building sat on Industrial Road, half a mile from the nearest house. Railroad tracks ran behind it. Woods on the north side.
Isolated. Defensible. Easy to watch for police or security.
It was perfect.
Marcus spent Sunday gathering supplies. Nothing suspicious. Just items any teenager might buy. Dark clothes from the thrift store. A ski mask from the sporting goods section at Walmart. Work gloves from the hardware store. A small flashlight. A disposable camera to document whatever he found.
His allowance barely covered it all, but he made it work. Better to start cheap and upgrade later than to wait until he had better gear.
Monday night, he told his parents he was feeling sick and went to bed early. They bought it. Marcus never lied to them before, so they had no reason to doubt him now.
The guilt twisted in his stomach, but he pushed it down. Sometimes good people had to do bad things. The forums had taught him that too.
He waited until midnight. The house was silent except for his father's snoring and the hum of his mother's medical equipment. Marcus dressed in black jeans and a dark hoodie. He pulled on the ski mask and work gloves. The mirror showed a stranger looking back at him.
Good.
He slipped out through his bedroom window and climbed down the oak tree he'd been using for years. Marlon thought their parents didn't know about it, but Marcus had seen his father smile once while watching his younger son sneak back inside.
The streets of Millbrook were empty. Marcus stayed in the shadows, moving from tree to house to parked car. It took twenty minutes to reach Industrial Road. The warehouse loomed ahead, dark and abandoned.
Or so it seemed.
Marcus crouched behind a rusted dumpster and studied the building. Most of the windows were broken, but a few had been boarded up with fresh plywood. New padlocks on two of the doors. Someone was definitely using this place.
He circled the perimeter, staying low and quiet. On the back side, facing the railroad tracks, he found what he was looking for. A loading dock with a broken door that hung open just enough for a skinny teenager to slip through.
Marcus paused at the entrance. His heart hammered against his ribs. Once he went inside, there was no going back. No pretending he was just a normal kid with normal problems.
But Chloe's bruised face flashed in his mind. Her voice like gravel, begging him to find justice.
He squeezed through the gap.
The warehouse was bigger inside than it looked. Moonlight filtered through broken windows, casting strange shadows across the concrete floor. The air smelled like motor oil and something else. Something sweet and chemical.
Marcus pulled out his flashlight and flicked it on. The beam revealed stacks of wooden crates along the far wall. Brand new, with shipping labels still attached. Most were marked as electronics or auto parts. But a few had different labels. Medical supplies. Agricultural chemicals.
He moved closer and examined the nearest crate. The wood was solid, held together with industrial screws. But one corner was slightly loose. Marcus worked his fingers under the gap and pried it open.
Inside, packed in foam padding, were dozens of small plastic bags filled with white powder.
Marcus's blood turned to ice. This was it. Proof that the Torrinos were running drugs through their import business. Enough evidence to bring down the whole operation.
He pulled out the disposable camera and started taking pictures. The crates. The shipping labels. The drugs themselves. Each flash seemed impossibly loud in the empty warehouse.
After the tenth photo, he heard something that made his heart stop.
Voices outside. Getting closer.
"... told you to check this place every night, not every other night."
"Sorry, Mr. Torrino. Won't happen again."
"It better not. We're moving a big shipment tomorrow. Can't afford any surprises."
Footsteps on gravel. Keys jingling. They were coming to the front entrance.
Marcus pocketed the camera and looked around frantically. The loading dock was thirty feet away across open floor. No cover. No way to reach it without being seen.
He ran toward the back corner where the shadows were deepest. Behind the stacks of crates, he found a narrow space just big enough to hide in. He squeezed inside and tried to control his breathing.
The front door creaked open. Flashlight beams swept across the warehouse floor.
"Everything looks normal," a voice said. Younger than the first one. Maybe one of Julio's crew.
"Check the crates anyway. Someone was sniffing around the electronics shop yesterday. Kid asking too many questions about the family business."
Marcus's stomach dropped. They were talking about him. About his conversation with Nico.
Footsteps approached his hiding spot. A flashlight beam passed inches from his face. Marcus pressed himself deeper into the shadows and held his breath.
"This one's been opened," the younger voice said.
Silence. Then the older voice, cold and dangerous: "Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Corner's been pried loose. Screws are stripped."
More footsteps. Multiple flashlight beams converging on the damaged crate.
"Motherfucker," the older voice snarled. "Someone's been here. Search the whole place. Check every corner, every shadow. Find the little shit."
Marcus closed his eyes and tried not to panic. They were going to find him. And when they did...
He thought about Chloe, tied to a chair in some basement. About the photos on her camera. About his mother's smile over breakfast that morning.
If he was going to die, at least the camera in his pocket had evidence. Maybe someone would find it eventually. Maybe it would still do some good.
The footsteps were getting closer. A flashlight beam swept across the wall above his head.
Then, from somewhere outside, came the sound of screeching tires and a loud crash.
"What the hell?" one of the searchers said.
"Check it out," the older voice commanded. "Probably just kids joyriding, but we can't take chances."
Footsteps moved toward the front of the warehouse. Marcus heard the door creak open again.
"Jesus Christ," someone said from outside. "Car went right into the ditch. Looks like the driver took off."
"Probably drunk. Let's get out of here before the cops show up."
"What about the break-in?"
"We'll deal with it tomorrow. Move the shipment to the backup location. This place is compromised."
Car doors slammed. Engines started. Gravel crunched under tires as the vehicles drove away.
Marcus stayed hidden for another ten minutes, listening to his own heartbeat. When he was sure they were gone, he crept out of his hiding spot and made his way to the loading dock.
Outside, the night air felt like freedom. Marcus ran through the woods and didn't stop until he reached his own backyard. He climbed the oak tree with shaking hands and slipped back through his bedroom window.
Only then did he allow himself to really think about what had just happened.
He'd found evidence. Solid proof that the Torrinos were smuggling drugs. The photos on the camera would be enough to bring charges, if he could find someone trustworthy to give them to.
But he'd also made a critical mistake. They knew someone had been there. They'd connected it to his questions about the family business. It was only a matter of time before they figured out who.
Marcus stripped off his dark clothes and hid them in the back of his closet. The disposable camera went into his sock drawer next to Chloe's digital one. Two pieces of evidence that could destroy Vincent Torrino's empire.
If Marcus lived long enough to use them.
He lay in bed and stared at the ceiling until dawn. His first attempt at vigilante justice had succeeded beyond his wildest hopes. But it had also taught him a harsh lesson.
This wasn't a game. These people killed anyone who threatened them. And now they knew someone was out there, watching them, gathering evidence.
The war had begun. Marcus just hoped he was ready for what came next.
Outside his window, Millbrook slept peacefully. Normal families in normal houses, unaware that a seventeen-year-old boy had just declared war on the most dangerous criminal organization in three counties.
Marcus closed his eyes and tried to rest. Tomorrow, he would start planning his next move. Tonight, he would dream of Chloe's smile and pretend his hands weren't still shaking.