Chapter 5: Home Invasion

Jason's borrowed Nikes crunched gravel outside the Belle Meade Estates gate. Security lights illuminated his dust-covered face. "Evening, Mr. Johnson." The guard's flashlight lingered on his torn Armani shirt. "Rough night?"

The guard's walkie crackled. "Unit 3 confirms - that's definitely Kevin Johnson. Looks like he got jumped again."

The six-bedroom McMansion was dark. Lila's Tesla wasn't in the driveway. Jason rattled the wrought-iron gate - keypad locked. Richard Johnson's voice echoed through memory fragments: "You'll never own this place, you little shit."

His stomach growled. The meth cook's knowledge calculated caloric intake. Twenty-seven hours since last meal. Body mass index critical.

A chain-link fence encircled the property, topped with a laser grid. Jason's fingers twitched with the muscle memory of a Brooklyn cat burglar. He pulled off the bloodstained shirt, wrapped it around the barbed wire.

Three running steps. Vault. The sniper's spatial awareness mapped trajectories in mid-air. He missed the lasers by two inches, landing in rose bushes. Thorns shredded his back.

"Damn trust-fund abs," he muttered, plucking a thorn from his shoulder. The wound closed before his eyes.

French doors guarded the pool house. Jason chewed on a dandelion stalk - the car thief's fingers remembered Detroit's back-alley tricks. The deadbolt clicked on the third try.

Empty vodka bottles littered the marbled foyer. Framed wedding pictures showed Lila's frozen smile. Jason's new eyes spotted the security panel flashing red-motion sensors active.

He froze. The embezzler's memory surfaced: Kevin always disabled the alarms on Lila's birthday. 0-8-1-5. The panel beeped green.

The Sub-Zero refrigerator held expired oat milk and Veuve Clicquot. Jason devoured cold pizza from Thursday's delivery box. His healing factor burned calories like jet fuel.

Upstairs, Kevin's walk-in closet reeked of cologne and regret. Jason tossed $3,000 suits into a garbage bag. The cartel accountant's instincts chose practical items - black jeans, steel-toed boots, a leather jacket that didn't scream "kidnap victim."

Lila's Instagram was updated - sunset yoga in Malibu. Tagged @AlexJohnson. Corporate spy knowledge recognized the beach house background. Richard Johnson's summer retreat. Where thirteen-year-old Kevin found his mother's antidepressants.

Headlights cut through curtains. Jason ducked as a Ford F-150 pulled up outside. Two security guards approached with tasers drawn.

"Mr. Johnson?" The lead guard knocked. "We have a perimeter alarm. Do you need assistance?"

Jason flushed the last of the pizza crust down the toilet. "All good, boys!" he called through the door, his voice sounding like Kevin's whiskey rasp. "Just redecorating!"

The guards exchanged glances. "Your father's office called. They want you at the quarterly board meeting tomorrow."

"Tell Daddy dearest I'll be wearing my lucky tie."

As the tires crunched gravel again, Jason emptied Kevin's nightstand - $12,000 in cash, a burner phone, and photos of a brunette who wasn't Lila. The girl's face triggered memory fragments: clinical trial consent forms, midnight hospital visits, Richard Johnson's angry roar-"You signed what?"

The moon rose over Nashville. Jason stuffed loot into a Gucci duffel. Somewhere in the city, Dr. Owens' lab held answers. But first - real food. The neon sign of the truck stop diner flashed two miles west.

He paused at the smashed French door. The cat burglar's instincts itched to leave a calling card. Jason scrawled on Kevin's bathroom mirror with Lila's lipstick: "Back from the dead. Try harder next time."

The guard waved him through. "New look, Mr. Johnson?"

"Midlife crisis," Jason said, revving up Kevin's neglected Ducati. The bike's growl echoed through the sleeping suburbs. Somewhere, a lab technician was testing blood samples labeled "Project Lazarus.