Chapter 5 - Sabotage in the Night
The boardroom erupted into chaos.
Attorneys scrambled, board members began talking over one another, and Richard Caldwell stood frozen as two uniformed federal officers stepped into the room from the side entrance.
"Richard Caldwell," the lead agent said, pulling a folded warrant from his jacket. "You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit wire fraud, commercial bribery, and interstate extortion."
Richard didn't say a word. He didn't look at his father. As the handcuffs clicked around his wrists, his eyes remained fixed on me and Lucy—a look of pure, unadulterated venom that chilled me to the bone.
As the agents led Richard away, Henry sat back down heavily in his chair, pressing a hand against his chest. His face was pale, his breathing shallow.
"Mr. Caldwell!" I cried out, rushing forward despite myself.
"I'm... I'm alright, Sofia," Henry wheezed, taking a small nitro tablet from his pocket and placing it under his tongue. "Just... the strain of watching my own blood choose greed over honor."
"You need to lie down," Elena said, immediately calling for the building’s medical staff.
"No," Henry insisted, grabbing my hand with surprisingly firm strength. "Sofia... Richard is caught, but Apex Global is a Hydra. Cut off one head, and another appears. They have operatives in this city who stand to lose millions if this project collapses. They will try to burn down what they cannot control."
"What are you saying?" I asked.
"Take your daughter and go home," Henry urged. "Marcus will stay with you. Do not leave the restaurant unguarded tonight."
That evening, the San Antonio air felt thick and humid, heavy with the promise of a late-summer thunderstorm.
El Sol was closed. I had pulled the metal security shades down over the front windows and locked the heavy oak back door. Marcus had parked his black SUV in the alley behind the kitchen, while another guard sat in an unmarked sedan across the street.
Inside, the diner was dark, lit only by the red glow of the exit sign and the soft light of the kitchen prep fridge. Lucy was asleep in the back office on a makeshift cot I had made out of sofa cushions and warm blankets.
I sat at the counter with a mug of black coffee, watching the rain start to pitter-patter against the roof. I couldn't sleep. The events of the last two days felt like a fever dream. One moment I was drowning in utility bills, and the next I was caught in a federal investigation involving billionaires and corporate fraud.
Around 2:15 AM, the lights inside the kitchen suddenly flickered and went completely dark.
The soft hum of the refrigeration units died.
I stood up instantly, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Marcus?" I called out softly.
No answer.
I walked toward the kitchen, my shoes squeaking against the wet tile floor. Through the small window in the back door, I could see the alleyway.
Marcus's SUV was still there, but the interior light was off.
Then, I smelled it.
It wasn't coffee. It wasn't grease.
It was the sharp, pungent, unmistakable stench of gasoline.
Suddenly, a loud CRACK shattered the silence. The back window of the kitchen exploded inward in a shower of glass fragments!
A glass bottle wrapped in rag—burning with a fierce, yellow flame—landed directly on top of the prep table, rolling off onto the wooden floorboards near the gas lines!
"FIRE!" I screamed.
May you like
Flames instantly licked up the wall, feeding on the dry wood and grease accumulation. Smoke—black, thick, and suffocating—began to billow into the ceiling spaces.
"Lucy!" I yelled, turning and sprinting toward the back office. "LUCY! GET UP!"
