CHAPTER FOUR — THE ROOM WHERE THEY BUILT THE LIE

CHAPTER FOUR — THE ROOM WHERE THEY BUILT THE LIE

The steel-gray air of Williamson County never really left my lungs. You breathe it in once, and it stays there, like the taste of blood after a busted lip. That’s the smell I carried in my head as I picture the room where they sat—the room where they built me into a monster. A bunker without walls, a war council disguised as a meeting of men in ties and uniforms. They called it “coordination.” I called it the theater of the damned.

Gleason sat at the head of the table, quiet, like a vulture pretending he wasn’t circling. He never needed to raise his voice—he had people for that. He leaned back, the kind of lean that says, “I’m the boss. You do the talking. I’ll do the deciding.” His silence wasn’t weakness. It was power distilled into a smirk.

The District Attorney, nervous as hell, fidgeted with her pen like it was the only thing between her and a firing squad. She tried to play strong, but every word that came out of her mouth reeked of doubt. “We don’t have enough evidence,” she said. “The best I can do is stack charges and hope he doesn’t take it to trial.” Her voice trembled, just a little. Enough for Nathan to pounce.

Nathan—God, Nathan was a bulldog with a taste for blood. He leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Aren’t you on our team? We’re trying to fry this motherfucker. Every time we bring you something, you shoot it down. You want him to walk?” The DA looked down, swallowed hard, but she didn’t back off completely. “It’s not about wanting him to walk,” she muttered. “It’s about what will stick.”

Dalton, never missing a chance to stir the pot, smirked. “Nathan, easy. Don’t scare her off. She’s got her job. We’ve got ours. Besides…” he chuckled, “you’re spending a little too much time talking to his ex. You sure you’re not compromised?” Nathan shot him a glare that could cut steel. “Fuck you, Dalton. I’ve had very intimate conversations with her. She says he’s a dumbass. Claims he’s not half as smart as he pretends to be.” Dalton grinned wider. “Yeah, yeah. You hitting that?” Nathan leaned back, sly smile playing on his lips. “No, man. You know I’m married.” The room erupted in laughter. Gleason didn’t laugh. He just watched.

That’s how it always went. Gleason’s silence, Nathan’s rage, Dalton’s jokes, and the DA’s anxiety. And then there was Derek—the real operator. Derek didn’t sit. He prowled. He paced the edges of the room like a man counting exits. His job wasn’t to argue. His job was to execute. And when he finally spoke, everyone listened.

“I’ve got a trick up my sleeve,” Derek said, calm as ice. “Something new. We’ll dose him. He hasn’t had vaccines. I talked to Davis—EMT Davis—and he’s in. We’ll push fifty cc’s of the antivirus, loaded with COVID. He’ll get sick, sick enough to stumble, maybe sicker. If it breaks him, good. If not…” he shrugged, “…we’ve got other plays.”

The DA’s face went pale. “That’s insane. You can’t do that.” Gleason tilted his head, finally breaking silence. “How the hell are you gonna get COVID into him?” Derek didn’t blink. “I told you. We inject it. No one will know. It’ll come through Houston. Facility’s already on board. Our doctor will move it. And if anyone asks, nobody knows.” Gleason smirked. “Our doctor. Got it.”

That’s when the U.S. Marshal’s rep chuckled. He hadn’t said a word until then, leaning in his chair like the whole show amused him. “We’ll add a little flavor of our own,” he said. “When we walk him into court, we’ll surround him with hot girls. He won’t have seen a woman in years. We’ll watch him sweat. Maybe even trip up in front of the jury.” The laughter came easy this time. Cruel, sharp, like knives clinking on glass.

And then the FBI spoke. Ramirez, hard-eyed, measured. “We’re already tapping his accounts. We’ll hack the rest—Cash App, Facebook, emails. We’ll find what we need. Subpoenas? Forget it. We’ll make the evidence appear, and when it shows up, it’ll be wrapped with a bow.” The DA shook her head, horrified. “That’s not how it works.” Ramirez cut her off. “That’s exactly how it works. You just need it to land on your desk. You don’t ask where it came from.”

Behind her, the screens flickered to life—Special Agent Shaw on one, Special Agent Walsh on the other. Two men, opposite coasts, same expression: weary, skeptical. Shaw shook his head. “I’ve told you before—half of this won’t stick. He knows too much. He’s trained in network security. He’ll smell the setup.” Walsh chimed in, voice flat. “Exactly. You push too hard, you’ll tip your hand. He’ll figure out the NITs, and then we’re fucked.”

The DA squinted. “What are NITs?” Ramirez sighed, annoyed. “Network Investigative Techniques. Our secret toys. Malware. Tracking. Stuff that lives in his machines before he even knows it’s there. He knows about them. He can spot them. That’s what makes this dangerous.”

Nathan slammed his fist on the table. “Dangerous? He’s just a guy! A dumbass with a big mouth. His ex says he can’t hold a job, can’t keep a woman, and we’re supposed to be scared of him?” Shaw, calm as ever, shook his head. “Your ex-intel is sloppy. Don’t underestimate him. He’s beaten systems before. We’ve been watching since 2012. Every time we thought we had him, he slipped. PayPal accounts with untouched money, international flights that don’t line up, security conferences where he popped up in the background. You think that’s an accident? It’s not. He knows what he’s doing.”

That’s when Derek cut in again, sharp as a blade. “Doesn’t matter. My ISF guys will make sure he never makes it to trial.” Silence fell like a hammer. Everyone knew what he meant. Nobody said it out loud.

Garrett, leaning forward with his Texas drawl, added fuel. “Travis County and APD aren’t lifting a damn finger until there’s a conviction. They’re out. Not our problem, but it means we’re carrying this.” Gleason nodded slowly, then spoke for the first real time all night. “Then we carry it. And we don’t drop it.”

The DA scribbled furiously on her pad, her hand shaking. “The best I can do,” she whispered, “is stack the charges. Hope to God he doesn’t go to trial. That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.” Derek leaned in close, voice low, almost a whisper. “Then pray, Counselor. Because if he does, my people will make sure he never sees the inside of a courtroom.”

And that’s how the playbook was written—not on paper, not on record, but in smoke, whispers, and threats. They thought they were building a case. What they were really building was a coffin—and they wanted me to climb in willingly.

Everyone in there wanted a piece of me—some for career, some for pride, some just for the thrill of it. And as the night stretched on, the conversations got darker, sharper, more dangerous.

The DA tried to steady herself, clutching her pen like a weapon. “I’m telling you, this isn’t solid,” she said again. “Stacking charges isn’t a plan—it’s a gamble.” 

Nathan leaned across the table, jaw tight. “Lady, it’s the only fucking plan you’ve got. And let me make it clear—we don’t need you to believe it. We need you to sign it.” 

That’s when Derek dropped his ace. “Forget her nerves. The ISF guys are in place. They’ll do their job. They always do.” He paced like a general before a battle, eyes locked on no one but daring everyone to challenge him. “And if he thinks he can play smart guy, he won’t make it to see a jury. You all know it.”

The Marshal’s Service guy laughed under his breath, that smug federal chuckle that sounds like it comes with a badge. “Hell, we’ll soften him up before court. Line his walk with women—good-looking ones. He won’t have seen skin in months. Let’s see how he acts when temptation’s six inches from his nose.” He grinned, sick satisfaction radiating off him. “Everybody’s got a weakness.”

The DA recoiled. “That’s entrapment.” Ramirez from the FBI leaned forward, cool as a poker player with pocket aces. “It’s persuasion,” he corrected. “And it works.”

On the screens, Special Agent Shaw shook his head from New York. “I’m telling you, you’re reaching. This case is thin.” Walsh, patched in from San Francisco, nodded in agreement. “Thin and risky. The more you pile on, the more likely it is to collapse under its own weight. He knows tech. He knows surveillance. You press too hard, you’ll expose your methods.” 

Nathan slammed the table so hard the coffee cups rattled. “You two always preach caution. Caution doesn’t win. Aggression does. We push, we break him, we win. End of story.” His face flushed red, and for a moment, you’d think he was on trial.

Dalton leaned back, smirking. “Careful, Nathan. You’re starting to sound personal. Maybe your little side chats with the ex-wife got you thinking you’re part of the story.” Nathan’s face darkened, but before he could snap back, Gleason finally spoke.

Gleason’s voice was soft, deliberate, every syllable a nail being driven. “Enough. You all talk like this is chaos. It’s not. It’s a process. He embarrassed us in 2019. We don’t make that mistake again. We fry him this time. If the DA stacks charges, good. If Derek’s people cut corners, better. If Ramirez feeds us what we need, best. And if Shaw and Walsh don’t like it, too fucking bad. We’re not here to debate morality—we’re here to win.” 

Silence. Heavy. Absolute. Gleason leaned back again, his point made. That was his power—say nothing for an hour, then drop a sentence that cemented the whole night.

Ramirez finally broke the silence. “We’ve already started pulling from his accounts. CashApp, PayPal, Facebook. If there’s dirt, we’ll find it. If there isn’t, we’ll make it.” He turned to the DA. “Your desk will be stacked by Monday. Don’t ask where it came from. Just use it.”

The DA’s pen froze over her pad. “That’s fabrication,” she whispered. Derek smirked. “That’s survival.”

From the corner, Garrett piped up, voice dripping with small-town Texas grit. “Travis County and APD already washed their hands of this. They won’t touch it until we bring them a conviction. So if you’re waiting on their help, you’ll be waiting forever.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “This one’s on us.”

The DA rubbed her temples. “The best I can do is stack charges. That’s it. I’ll pile them high and hope he doesn’t take it to trial. Because if he does—” Derek cut her off, sharp. “He won’t. My ISF guys won’t let him.” 

That statement hung in the air like a loaded gun. Nobody challenged it. Not even the FBI.

The female FBI agent—young, sharp, eyes like a hawk—finally spoke up. “You’re missing the point. The Department of Justice is watching. If this leaks, we’re all screwed. Subpoenas, oversight committees, whistleblowers—it’s a minefield.” Ramirez waved her off. “We’ll bury it. We’ve done it before.” 

Shaw’s voice crackled from the screen. “And every time you bury it, the risk grows. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Walsh echoed, “One misstep, and this guy flips the narrative. He’s not as dumb as you think.” 

Nathan scoffed, biting the words off. “He’s exactly as dumb as I think. His ex-wife told me herself—he’s a fraud, a wannabe, a loser. And losers don’t win against us.” 

Dalton chuckled again. “You sound jealous, Nathan. Maybe because he had more women around him than you ever did. You sure you’re not pissed she preferred him first?” Nathan’s glare could have started a fire, but Gleason lifted a hand, silencing the room once more.

“Here’s how it is,” Gleason said, low and final. “We stack the charges. We squeeze him with ISFs. We poison his public image. And if he tries to stand in a courtroom, we make sure he doesn’t get there alive. That’s the plan. That’s the only plan. Anyone here got the balls to say otherwise?” No one spoke. Not even the DA.

That was the blueprint. Not justice, not law, not truth. A blueprint for annihilation.

And me? I was the blueprint’s target. Every pen stroke, every smirk, every whispered deal was one more nail they were trying to drive into my coffin. 

But here’s the part they didn’t write into their playbook—the part they never planned for: I don’t fucking lose. Not in 2019. Not in 2025. Not ever. And if they think they can bury me with stacked charges, poisoned food, hot girls, or ISF goons, they’ve got another thing coming. Because I was listening. I was learning. I was watching their game. And I was already rewriting the ending.

This was Chapter Four of their playbook.

But it’s only Chapter One of mine.