Chapter 6 - The Weak Link
Dean Sterling was thirty-two years old, arrogant, and thoroughly cowardly when stripped of his family's wealth.
He drove his black Porsche 911 down I-65 at ninety miles an hour, frantically making calls on his hands-free system while glancing constantly into his rear-view mirror.
He carried a leather duffel bag stuffed with eighty thousand dollars in cash—funds he had managed to pull from a private safe deposit box before the federal freeze took effect. His plan was simple: drive to Atlanta, catch a flight to Mexico, and lay low until the federal storm blew over.
He didn't notice the black Ford F-150 trailing three cars behind him.
Nor did he notice the dark blue utility van driven by Kovacs, moving parallel to him in the left lane.
"Jax," I said over the comms link. "Kill his vehicle."
"Deploying EMP pulse relay," Jax replied from the van.
Jax activated a localized electromagnetic interference device directed at Dean’s Porsche.
Instantly, the Porsche’s electronic dashboard went completely dark. The engine died. The power steering locked up.
Dean gasped in panic, wrestling with the steering wheel as the sports car coasted onto the grassy shoulder of the highway, coming to a dead stop near an isolated stretch of pine trees near Franklin.
Dean slammed his hands against the wheel, cursing loudly. He grabbed his duffel bag, threw open the door, and stepped out onto the grass, pulling out his phone to dial a tow truck.
A heavy black pickup truck pulled onto the shoulder twenty yards ahead of him.
The driver’s door opened.
I stepped out of the truck, wearing black tactical jeans, a leather jacket, and aviator sunglasses.
Dean froze. He squinted through the bright sunlight, recognizing me slowly.
"Ethan?" Dean stammered, a forced, nervous laugh escaping his lips. "What... what are you doing here? My car just broke down—"
I didn't answer. I walked toward him with slow, deliberate steps.
Dean’s nervous laughter died in his throat. He backed up against his stalled Porsche, his eyes darting frantically toward the passing traffic on the highway.
"Look, man," Dean said, holding up his hands defensively. "I know you’re mad about what happened with Oliver yesterday. It was a mistake! Dad was out of control! Paul and I were just trying to calm Dad down—"
I reached out, grabbed Dean by the throat, and slammed him against the side window of his Porsche with enough force to shatter the glass.
Dean shrieked in terror, his hands clawing uselessly at my grip. His face turned beet red as I squeezed his windpipe, shutting off his air supply.
"You held my son’s arms," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that cut through his panic like a razor. "While your father smashed his face into the concrete."
"I... I’m sorry!" Dean choked out, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Please! Don't kill me!"
I pulled him forward and slammed him back against the car frame once more.
"Where is Paul?" I asked.
"He’s... he’s at the main office!" Dean wheezed, gasping for breath. "He’s trying to shred the off-book financial files before the feds get there!"
I let go of his throat. Dean collapsed onto his knees on the grass, coughing violently, clutching his neck.
I reached down, grabbed his leather duffel bag, opened it, and looked at the stacks of hundred-dollar bills inside.
"This is stolen money, Dean," I said quietly.
"Take it!" Dean sobbed, staring up at me with absolute horror in his eyes. "Take all of it! Just don't hurt me!"
I handed the duffel bag to Kovacs, who had just walked up beside us holding a pair of heavy flex-cuffs.
"Zip-tie him to the steering wheel," I told Kovacs. "Then dial the State Police. Tell them we’ve got a fleeing felon carrying evidence of corporate fraud."
"With pleasure," Kovacs said, grabbing Dean by his shirt collar and hauling him toward the car.
May you like
I turned back toward my truck.
One brother down. One to go.
