Chapter 6 - The Crack in the Armor
I didn't move. I kept my hands where he could see them, keeping my eyes locked onto his. "You think you're safe because your brother is a captain in the local precinct, Richard? You think he can protect you from this?"
Richard laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "My brother knows exactly who pays for his summer home, Arthur. The local cops won't find a thing. Now, give me the papers, or I will make this very messy for you."
"The papers aren't real, Richard," I said quietly.
Richard blinked, his smile faltering. "What?"
"I don't have your financial statements from the foundation. Chloe didn't take anything from your briefcase," I said, taking a step backward toward the kitchen counter. "I fabricated the folder. There's nothing inside it but blank printer paper."
Sarah gasped, rushing forward and ripping open the manila folder. A stack of completely blank white sheets spilled across the counter. "Richard! It’s empty! He lied!"
"You needed a reason to come here," I said, pointing up toward the ceiling corners. "And I needed a reason to get you to admit on camera that you knew about the insurance policy, that you knew about the dosage, and that you intended to kill me to cover it up."
Richard's face transformed from arrogant calm to pure rage. He raised the gun, pointing it directly at my chest. "It doesn't matter. There are no cameras here. It's your word against ours, and you won't be alive to speak it."
"Are you sure about that?" I asked.
Through my earpiece, I heard Marcus’s voice: "We have it all, Arthur. Clear text, high def, and the federal prosecutor is authorized. The tactical unit is breaching in five seconds. Get down!"
Before Richard could pull the trigger, the front windows of my living room shattered inward with a deafening crash. Flashbang grenades exploded in the hallway, filling the house with blinding white light and a roaring boom that threw Sarah to the floor.
"Federal agents! Drop the weapon! Drop it now!"
Black-clad tactical officers swarmed through the broken windows and the smashed front door. Richard tried to turn toward the back exit, but an officer tackled him into the dining room table, sending wood splintering everywhere. The pistol clattered across the linoleum floor, stopping right at my feet.
I didn't pick it up. I just stood there, watching as Richard’s face was pressed hard against the floor, his hands zip-tied behind his back. Sarah was screaming, weeping hysterically as she was handcuffed and dragged out of the kitchen.
As they hauled Richard past me, he looked up, his eyes spitting venom. "This isn't over, Vance! You have nothing! My lawyers will tear this apart!"
"They won't," a calm, authoritative voice said from the doorway.
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Marcus walked into the kitchen, holding a secure digital storage drive. Behind him was Assistant U.S. Attorney Elena Vance—no relation to us, but a legendary prosecutor known for destroying white-collar criminals.
"Mr. Miller," she said, looking down at him with utter disgust. "You aren't being charged by the state. This is a federal indictment for wire fraud, money laundering, healthcare fraud resulting in death, and conspiracy to commit murder. Your brother can’t save you. The FBI just raided his precinct ten minutes ago."
