Chapter 6 - DEREK
I did not reply.
That was the first rule.
Do not engage.
Do not challenge.
Do not prove you are frightened.
I took screenshots.
Exported the message thread.
Preserved the number.
Then called Ruiz.
She answered even though it was late.
“Do not respond,” she said immediately.
“I haven’t.”
“Good.”
“Do you know this number?”
“We will.”
“Is Derek threatening me?”
“I’m not going to characterize it yet.”
“It says he wants his money.”
“I can read.”
I almost smiled despite myself.
Ruiz’s lack of emotional decoration had become oddly comforting.
“What money?”
“We’re working on that.”
“Does Britney owe him?”
“Likely.”
“How much?”
“We don’t know.”
“Is he dangerous?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
That one word changed the room.
I checked the lock on my door.
Ruiz continued.
“You need to inform base security.”
“I will.”
“Tonight.”
“I said I will.”
“And do not travel home.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
Base security took it seriously.
Within an hour, the number and screenshots were documented.
My command was notified.
Additional precautions were discussed.
I hated every second.
Not because I feared procedure.
Because Britney had managed to drag something from her world toward mine.
Fort Carson had always felt separate.
My parents’ chaos existed north.
My work existed south.
A clean line between them.
Now that line was gone.
The next morning, Ruiz gave me more.
Derek Collins had prior convictions for fraud, forgery, and trafficking in stolen identification documents.
He was not a mastermind.
People like Derek rarely are.
He was worse in a practical way.
Persistent.
Experienced.
Comfortable operating inside the gaps between systems.
He bought data.
Sold data.
Set up companies.
Recruited people with legitimate identities.
Used desperate people as fronts.
Britney fit perfectly.
Good enough credit history to appear normal.
Financially desperate enough to take risks.
Connected to a military family member with an excellent profile.
Parents willing to rescue her.
A house full of documents.
“What did he promise her?” I asked Ruiz.
“Money.”
“That simple?”
“It usually is.”
I wanted some elaborate explanation.
Manipulation.
Blackmail.
Coercion.
Something that could make Britney less responsible.
Reality was uglier.
Money.
She wanted money.
Derek showed her how to get it.
Then she kept going.
“Did he threaten her?”
“Eventually.”
That mattered.
Eventually.
Meaning Britney had chosen the road before it became a trap.
“Where is she?”
“We believe she left Colorado.”
“Where?”
Ruiz hesitated.
“Arizona.”
“Phoenix?”
“Possibly.”
I remembered her question.
“Is Derek there?”
“We believe he has contacts there.”
“Can I talk to Britney?”
“If she contacts you, keep her talking.”
That surprised me.
“You want me to engage?”
“If she initiates contact. Do not promise money. Do not warn her about enforcement activity. Do not agree to lie.”
“That list describes our entire family history.”
Ruiz did not laugh.
But her voice softened.
“I know.”
At 2:14 that afternoon, Britney called.
Unknown number.
I recognized her breathing before she spoke.
“Don’t hang up.”
I sat down.
“I’m here.”
She started crying.
“I messed up.”
The old version of me almost answered automatically.
We’ll fix it.
Tell me where you are.
I’ll help.
Instead, I said:
“Yes.”
She stopped crying for half a second.
“What?”
“You messed up.”
“You don’t have to sound like that.”
“How should I sound?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because he’ll find me.”
“Derek?”
Silence.
“Britney.”
“Yes.”
“Is he with you?”
“No.”
“Are you safe?”
Another pause.
“I don’t know.”
That answer cut through my anger.
Whatever she had done, she was still my sister.
And fear sounded different from manipulation.
I knew both voices.
This sounded real.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Does anyone know where you are?”
“No.”
“You need to contact police.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“No, you don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
“He has everything.”
“What does that mean?”
“Messages. Files. Videos.”
“Videos of what?”
She started crying again.
“I did things.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t.”
“Then tell me.”
“He made me record account setups. He said it was for training.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Leverage.
“If I leave him, he sends everything.”
“To police?”
“To everybody.”
“Britney, police already have the warehouse.”
Silence.
“What?”
“They searched it.”
She began breathing faster.
“Oh my God.”
“Listen to me.”
“You did this.”
There it was.
Even terrified, she found the old road.
“No. The search happened because of what was in the warehouse.”
“You gave them the address.”
“Yes.”
“You ruined everything.”
“No. I exposed something already happening.”
She swore at me.
I let her.
Then I said, “Do you want help or do you want someone to blame?”
She stopped.
The silence lasted ten seconds.
“Help.”
“Then contact Detective Ruiz.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Derek knows cops.”
“So?”
“He says he has people.”
“He says lots of things.”
“You don’t know him.”
“You’re right. But I know his criminal history.”
She went quiet.
“You know who he is?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because law enforcement does.”
Britney started breathing faster again.
“What did you tell them?”
“The truth.”
“All of it?”
“The parts I know.”
“Oh my God.”
“Stop saying that and listen.”
For once, she did.
“If Derek is threatening you, tell Ruiz. If you have evidence, preserve it. If you have access to accounts, do not destroy anything. Do not delete messages. Do not move money. Do not warn him.”
“You sound like a cop.”
“I sound like someone trying to keep you from making this worse.”
“It’s already worse.”
“How much do you owe him?”
Silence.
“Britney.”
“Two hundred.”
I frowned.
“Two hundred dollars?”
She laughed weakly.
“Thousand.”
My stomach dropped.
“How?”
“He fronted money.”
“For what?”
“Accounts. Inventory. payouts.”
“You owe Derek Collins two hundred thousand dollars?”
“I don’t know the exact number.”
Of course she didn’t.
“Where did the money go?”
“Some of it was never real money.”
“Explain.”
“He counted limits.”
“Credit limits?”
“Yes.”
“So he says you owe him for access to stolen credit.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t a lawful debt.”
“You think he cares?”
No.
He did not.
“Where are you?”
“I told you I can’t say.”
“Britney, if he can track your phone—”
“It’s not mine.”
“Whose?”
“I bought it.”
“With cash?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The word came out before I thought about it.
She laughed once.
“You’re proud of me?”
“No.”
That silence hurt both of us.
Then she whispered, “I’m sorry about the coffee.”
Six weeks earlier, I would have wanted that sentence more than anything.
Now it sounded tiny.
“I know.”
“No. I mean it.”
“Why now?”
She did not answer.
I knew.
Because consequences had arrived.
I hated that I thought it.
I hated that it was probably true.
She whispered, “I was angry because you were the only person I couldn’t make say yes.”
I stared at the floor.
That was more honest than an apology.
“You need to surrender.”
“I’ll go to prison.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t care?”
“I care.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“Caring does not require lying to you.”
She cried quietly.
“I’m scared.”
“I believe you.”
“Will you come get me?”
The question hit me hard.
Old programming.
Family rescue.
Drive anywhere.
Pay anything.
Fix everything.
But this was different.
“No.”
She inhaled sharply.
“What?”
“I will help you contact law enforcement. I will stay on the phone. I will make sure they know you’re afraid of Derek. But I am not driving across state lines to hide you.”
“You really are done with me.”
“No.”
I swallowed.
“I’m done helping you avoid consequences.”
Silence.
Then:
“There’s a motel near Flagstaff.”
My heart sped up.
“Name?”
She told me.
Room number.
I wrote it down.
“Stay there.”
“You’re calling police.”
“Yes.”
“You promised—”
“I promised nothing.”
“You bitch.”
“You can hate me alive.”
She sobbed.
I sent the information to Ruiz while keeping Britney on the phone.
Ruiz responded with one word:
Received.
Britney said, “I can hear you typing.”
“I’m making notes.”
“You always make notes.”
“Yes.”
“I used to hate that.”
“I know.”
“You made everything feel official.”
“Some things are.”
We stayed on the phone thirteen more minutes.
She told me fragments.
Derek controlled several accounts.
There were other people.
Sean handled equipment.
A woman named Tasha created documents.
Britney had been transferring money through business merchant processors.
Sometimes transactions were reversed.
Sometimes not.
Some victims never knew for months.
“Did you use my name more than what I found?”
She began crying again.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Estimate.”
“Six.”
Six.
My eyes closed.
“Accounts?”
“Yes.”
“Loans?”
“Some.”
“Government?”
“No.”
“Military?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“If you’re lying now—”
“I’m not.”
For the first time, I believed her.
Then somebody knocked on her motel door.
Britney stopped breathing.
“Who is it?” I whispered.
She did not answer.
Another knock.
Harder.
Then a man’s voice through the door.
“Brit.”
Britney whispered one word.
May you like
“Derek.”
The line went dead.
