Chapter 2: Blueprint for Chaos

The Crow's Nest fell silent at 2:47 AM, the last patron stumbling out into the cool night air with a slurred promise to "see ya tomorrow, Alex." But for Alexandra Vance, the real work was just beginning.

She locked the front door, flipped the sign to "CLOSED," and made her way through the dimly lit pub to her cramped back office. The space was barely larger than a closet, crammed with invoices, supplier catalogs, and the organized chaos that kept the bar running. But tonight, it would serve as a war room.

Alex cleared her desk with one sweep of her arm, sending receipts fluttering to the floor. She pulled out her laptop—a battered machine held together with duct tape and determination—and cracked her knuckles like a pianist preparing for Carnegie Hall.

"Alright, you greedy bastard," she muttered, opening a fresh browser window. "Let's see what the internet has to teach us about property values."

The first search was innocent enough: "factors that decrease home value." Real estate websites cheerfully offered lists of common problems—outdated kitchens, small bathrooms, lack of storage. All fixable with money the Gables had and the Sullivans didn't.

But Alex wasn't looking for common problems. She was looking for weapons.

Her second search was more specific: "things that make houses impossible to sell." Now she was getting somewhere. A forum thread titled "Nightmare Properties: When Good Houses Go Bad" caught her eye. She clicked through, her dark eyes scanning horror stories from real estate agents.

"Persistent odors," she read aloud, making notes on a napkin. "Structural issues, noise problems, difficult neighbors..." Her pen paused over that last one, and a slow smile spread across her face. "Difficult neighbors. Oh, we can work with that."

Three hours later, Alex's napkin had evolved into a comprehensive battle plan written on the back of an old beer supplier invoice. The margins were filled with phone numbers, question marks, and the occasional profanity. But it was beautiful in its simplicity.

The goal was elegant: make 47 Maple Street look like the kind of property that would give a real estate agent nightmares. Not damaged enough to be condemned, but undesirable enough that no sane person would want to live there. At least, no sane person other than the family who already called it home.

"Multi-sensory assault," she whispered, admiring her handiwork. "Visual, auditory, olfactory. Hit 'em from every angle."

Her phone buzzed with a text from Chloe: Can't sleep. Kids asking why I was crying. What are you planning?

Alex typed back quickly: Trust me. Will explain tomorrow. Get some rest.

But even as she sent the message, Alex knew she wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon. She had calls to make, favors to cash in, and a community to mobilize. The clock on her laptop showed 6:23 AM when she finally reached for her phone.

Her first call was to Big Dave Morrison, captain of the Blackwater Rugby Club and a man who'd never met a fight he wouldn't take on behalf of his friends. The phone rang four times before his gravelly voice answered.

"This better be good, Vance. It's not even seven in the morning."

"Dave, I need a favor. A big one."

"Jesus, what did you do now?"

Alex outlined the situation in quick, efficient strokes. Mrs. Gable's death, Richard's betrayal, the impossible price hike. She could hear Dave's breathing change as the story progressed, his morning grogginess replaced by the kind of righteous anger that had made him legendary on the rugby pitch.

"That slimy piece of—" Dave caught himself, probably remembering his wife was still sleeping upstairs. "What do you need?"

"I need you and the boys to throw the world's loudest, most obnoxious party. This Saturday, during the open house. Right next door."

There was a pause. Then Dave's booming laugh filled the phone line.

"You want us to scare off the yuppies?"

"I want you to make them think they're moving next to a motorcycle gang's social club."

"Consider it done. The boys have been looking for an excuse to fire up the bikes anyway. What else?"

Alex grinned. This was why she loved her community—ask for help, and they didn't just say yes, they asked what else they could do.

"Can you get me contact info for the Rust and Ruin car club? I need engines. Loud ones."

"My brother-in-law's in that crew. I'll make the introduction. Anything else?"

"Not yet. But Dave? This stays between us for now. The fewer people who know the details, the better."

"Understood. But Alex? Mrs. Gable was good people. Whatever it takes to honor her promise, you've got my support."

After hanging up, Alex allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. One phone call, and she already had twenty rugby players and their motorcycles committed to the cause. But she was just getting started.

Her next call was to Tommy Chen, president of the Rust and Ruin car club and owner of the loudest, most obnoxiously modified Honda Civic in three counties. Tommy listened to her pitch with the enthusiasm of someone being offered free tickets to a monster truck rally.

"So you want us to cruise the neighborhood all day Saturday? Rev engines, backfire a few times, maybe park some of our more... distinctive... vehicles on the street?"

"That's exactly what I want."

"Hell yes. Count us in. Mrs. G used to slip my kid candy whenever we walked past her place. She never complained about our cars, either, even when Mrs. Henderson from down the street kept calling the cops on us."

Alex made a mental note about Mrs. Henderson. Enemy intel was just as valuable as friendly forces.

"Tommy, one more thing. Can you make sure your cars look their absolute worst? I'm talking rust, dents, maybe some creative exhaust modifications?"

"Lady, you're speaking my language. We'll look like we just rolled out of a demolition derby."

Two down, dozens to go. Alex rubbed her eyes and reached for her third cup of coffee. The sun was fully up now, streaming through the grimy window of her office. In a few hours, she'd need to open the pub, smile at customers, and pretend this was just another normal day.

But first, she had an army to assemble.

Her phone rang before she could make her next call. Chloe's number flashed on the screen.

"Tell me you have good news," Chloe said without preamble.

"I have the beginning of good news. How do you feel about your house smelling like a fish market?"

"Alex—"

"Kidding. Mostly. Look, I'm putting together a plan, but I need to know something. How far are you willing to go to save your home?"

The line was quiet for a long moment. When Chloe spoke again, her voice was steady with a resolve Alex hadn't heard since their foster care days.

"Those kids have moved six times in their lives. Emma doesn't even remember living anywhere else. This isn't just our house, Alex. It's their stability, their security. It's the place where they learned to ride bikes and had birthday parties and feel safe."

"That's not what I asked."

Another pause. "What do you need me to do?"

Alex smiled, hearing echoes of the fierce girl who'd stood up to bullies twice her size when they were teenagers.

"I need you to be ready to get your hands dirty. And I need you to trust me completely, even if what I'm asking sounds crazy."

"It's going to sound crazy, isn't it?"

"Probably. But it's also going to work."

As they hung up, Alex felt the familiar rush of a plan coming together. She had her inside agents—Chloe and Mark—positioned in the target. She had her external forces mobilizing. Now she just needed to coordinate the chaos.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Big Dave: Brother-in-law says Rust and Ruin is in. Also, wife suggests we get Mrs. Higgins involved. She's got a front-row seat and a grudge against rich people.

Alex stared at the message, her mind racing. Mrs. Higgins lived directly across from the Sullivans, with a perfect view of their front door. She was also notorious for her loud opinions and her tendency to corner anyone who'd listen with stories about "the good old days."

But more importantly, Mrs. Higgins had been Mrs. Gable's friend. If anyone would be outraged by Richard's betrayal, it would be her.

Alex grabbed her keys and headed for the door. The pub could stay closed for another hour. She had a neighbor to recruit.

The foundation was laid. The troops were mobilizing. Now it was time to turn 47 Maple Street into every house hunter's worst nightmare.

Richard Gable had started a war, but he'd picked the wrong community to fight. By Saturday, he'd learn exactly what happened when you tried to break a promise made to people who had nothing left to lose.

Alex's reflection grinned back at her from the pub's front window, and for a moment, she looked exactly like the scrappy foster kid who'd never backed down from a fight.

Some things never changed.