Chapter 6 - The Sound of the Breakers
Two non-lethal flashbang rounds detonated on the edge of the porch with a blinding, white-hot roar that shook the windows of my father’s house. The concussive force knocked both Rodrigo and Ofelia to the floor, a thick cloud of gray smoke swallowing the white columns within a fraction of a second.
Vance and his team charged across the lawn like a black wave, their heavy boots slamming against the porch steps before the echo of the explosions had even finished vibrating through the air.
I didn't watch the takedown. The moment Ofelia struck her son, I had thrown my body over Valeria, pinning her against the reinforced steel of the armored van, my arms locked around her head to shield her from the debris. We stayed there in the dirt, our breathing synchronized in a frantic, terrifying rhythm, until the sound of shouting on the porch turned from tactical commands into the dull, rhythmic clink of metal handcuffs.
"Clear! Structure is clear!" Vance’s voice echoed through the street. "Both targets down. No casualties. Suspect one secured. Suspect two secured."
I slowly lifted myself off Valeria, my hands covered in the gray grit of the driveway. She looked up at me, her face pale, her cheeks streaked with tears, but her eyes were different. The small, deep-seated flicker of terror that had lived in her pupils since the day I met her was gone, replaced by a profound, exhausted clarity.
"It's over," she whispered, her voice barely a thread. "Preston... it's actually over."
"It's over," I said, reaching down to help her to her feet. "He can't touch you again."
We walked out from behind the van just as Mercer’s men were leading Rodrigo down the steps. His face was covered in blood from his broken nose, his expensive shirt ruined, his eyes wild and unfocused as he looked at the ground. He didn't look like a high-society executive anymore. He looked like an animal that had spent its entire life inside a cage of its own making and had finally run out of room to pace.
Behind him came Ofelia. Her coat was dusty, her hair disheveled for the first time in thirty years, but her chin remained tilted upward. When she passed Mercer, she stopped, her voice cold as ice.
"My lawyers will have us out by midnight, Detective," she said.
Mercer didn't smile. He pulled a thick manila folder from under his arm and held it open in front of her face. It wasn't the empty tin from the pantry. It was a stack of fresh federal indictments issued by the district attorney’s office while we were standing in the garage.
"Not this time, Mrs. Fleming," Mercer said smoothly. "The federal authorities just unsealed the banking records from your maiden name accounts in Miami. It turns out that driver you hired at the courthouse garage was quite talkative once we showed him the federal conspiracy statutes. You aren't going to a county jail. You're going to a federal holding facility in Brunswick. Have a nice flight."
May you like
Ofelia looked at the documents, her face turning an ugly, chalky gray. The ancient, aristocratic poise finally failed her. Her shoulders slumped, her hands trembling as the deputies guided her toward the rear of a secure transport van.
Valeria watched them go, her hand resting in mine, her fingers warm and steady. She didn't look away until the heavy steel doors of the transport van slammed shut and the vehicle pulled away from the curb, leaving Elm Street to the quiet, cleansing fall of the afternoon rain.
