Chapter 9 - The Trap Snares
Preston stared at his wife as if she were a ghost. He took a step toward her, his hands coming out of his pockets, his face twisting into a desperate, pleading mask.
"Liv, please," he stammered. "Think about the baby. Think about the family name. If this gets out, your father’s foundation will lose everything. The hospital... the legacy..."
"My father already knows, Preston," Olivia said, her voice dropping into a cold, contemptuous register that sounded remarkably like Caleb’s. "I called him from the hospital. He’s currently meeting with the board to remove your name from the pediatric wing. He’s the one who gave me a ride here."
From the dark parking lot outside, the sudden, rhythmic thumping of heavy machinery began to shake the corrugated steel walls of the warehouse.
It wasn't the rain.
It was the sound of two twin-rotor CH-47 Chinook helicopters landing on the river levee, their massive rotors kicking up a storm of wet grass and mud against the garage windows.
The high floodlights of the warehouse were suddenly joined by the brilliant, blue-and-red strobes of twenty federal law enforcement vehicles that poured through the open gate, completely blocking the silver Range Rover.
The main bay doors were shoved open from the outside, and a dozen heavily armed men in black tactical vests with the letters DCIS and FBI emblazoned across their chests flooded the room.
Leading them was a tall man in a crisp dress uniform with silver eagles on his shoulders—Colonel Raymond Vance.
"Preston Vale," the Colonel said, his voice echoing over the roar of the helicopters outside. "You are under arrest for federal procurement fraud under Title 10 of the United States Code, conspiracy to commit corporate sabotage, and felony endangerment of naval personnel."
Preston didn't run. He couldn't. His legs seemed to give out beneath him, and he slid down the front of the desk until he was sitting on the concrete floor, his expensive trousers soaked in transmission fluid, his face buried in his hands as the federal agents slapped heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists.
The Colonel walked over to Caleb, looking at his burned left hand, then up at his face.
"Good work, Sergeant," the Colonel said, offering a crisp, formal salute. "The bridge is secure."
May you like
Caleb returned the salute with his right hand, his face relaxed for the first time in two weeks.
"Thank you, sir," Caleb said. "I have a little girl in my truck who needs to finish her spelling homework."
