Chapter 7 - The Shredder
The corporate headquarters of Sterling Development occupied the top two floors of an eight-story glass tower in downtown Nashville.
By 1:00 PM, the office was a ghost town. News of the federal investigation had leaked to the media, and employees had fled the building, leaving behind empty desks and buzzing computer screens.
Inside the executive suite on the eighth floor, Paul Sterling stood frantically beside a heavy-duty industrial shredder, feeding stack after stack of financial ledgers, private contracts, and bribery receipts into the whirring blades.
Sweat poured down his forehead. His tie was loosened, his designer suit jacket thrown onto the couch.
"Come on, come on!" Paul muttered to himself, forcing another thick folder into the machine.
The double glass doors of the executive suite clicked open.
Paul turned around, startled. "Who’s there? The office is closed!"
I walked through the doorway, holding a steel crowbar I had pulled from my truck’s toolbox.
Paul gasped, dropping a stack of papers onto the floor. "Ethan?! How did you get up here? Security is downstairs—"
"Security went home, Paul," I said, walking slowly down the hallway toward his desk. "Along with everyone else."
Paul backed up against the shredder, looking at the crowbar in my hand. His athletic build—a legacy of his college football days—gave him a brief surge of false confidence. He straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest.
"You shouldn't have come here, Ethan," Paul sneered, trying to sound intimidating. "You think because Dad’s in trouble you can come in here and play hard guy? I’ll tear you apart."
I stopped six feet from him, resting the end of the crowbar against the carpet.
"You held Oliver’s legs," I said softly.
Paul spat on the floor. "The kid was screaming like a brat. He needed to be held down. And if you don't get out of my face right now, I’ll do the same damn thing to you."
Paul lunged forward, throwing a heavy right hook aimed at my jaw.
In my old world, a telegraphed punch like that was a gift.
I stepped inside his guard, deflected his arm with my left forearm, and drove the heavy iron end of the crowbar directly into his right kneecap.
A sharp, sickening CRACK echoed through the suite.
Paul let out a blood-curdling scream and collapsed onto the floor, clutching his shattered knee, writhing in agonizing pain.
"My knee! Oh god, my knee!" he howled, tears bursting from his eyes.
I stood over him, looking down with cold, unblinking eyes.
"That’s for Oliver’s legs," I said quietly.
I stepped over him, walked up to the industrial shredder, and hit the reverse button. The machine groaned, spitting out the partially shredded documents Paul had just tried to destroy.
I knelt down, picked up the key files—including signed bank documents showing Paul’s personal signature on fraudulent offshore shell company accounts—and slipped them into my tactical bag.
Paul lay on the floor, weeping, gasping for breath, staring up at me with pure terror.
"What are you?" Paul choked out through his sobs. "You’re just... you’re just a carpenter..."
I leaned down, bringing my face inches from his pale, sweat-slicked cheek.
"I spent twelve years in Task Force 88, Paul," I whispered into his ear. "I’ve hunted warlords in Helmand and cartels in Veracruz. Your father thought I was nobody because I chose to build things instead of breaking them. But today, I’m breaking everything you own."
I stood up, pulled out my phone, and pressed speed dial.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation," a voice answered.
May you like
"I’m standing in the executive suite of Sterling Development," I said. "Paul Sterling is currently on the floor with a fractured knee, surrounded by partially destroyed financial records. You might want to send an ambulance and an arrest team."
I hung up, picked up my bag, and walked out of the office, leaving Paul weeping on the floor.
