Chapter 7 - The Downfall of Arthur Mercer
At 9:15 AM, Arthur Mercer sat in his high-rise corner office in the Loop, frantically pouring three fingers of scotch into a glass. His hands were shaking so violently the amber liquid spilled onto his mahogany desk.
His phone was ringing continuously.
"What do you mean my accounts are frozen?" Mercer screamed into the receiver. "I have thirty million dollars in liquidity at First Midwest! ... What foreclosure? The note on the building isn't due until 2028!"
He slammed the phone down, only for his office doors to be thrown open with a loud, echoic bang.
Four uniformed Cook County Sheriff’s deputies stepped inside, accompanied by a man in a pristine charcoal suit holding a thick stack of legal writs.
"Arthur Mercer?" the man asked.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Mercer shrieked, backing against his floor-to-ceiling windows. "I have connections in the Governor's office! You can't enter my office!"
"Arthur Mercer," the deputy declared, pulling a set of steel handcuffs from his belt. "Under order of the Chancery Division of the Circuit Court, all commercial assets, real estate holdings, and physical property registered to Mercer Development LLC have been seized to satisfy an emergency judgment execution by Hayes Capital Investments."
Mercer’s eyes went wide as saucers. "Hayes... Alexander Hayes?!"
"Furthermore," the man with the legal papers added, stepping forward, "you are being named as the primary co-conspirator in an active federal arson investigation regarding the March 12th destruction of Vance Logistics Warehouse 4. A warrant for your arrest has been executed."
Mercer collapsed into his leather office chair, his breath coming in ragged, pathetic gasps. "No... no, Viktor said he would protect me! Viktor promised me!"
The deputy slapped the cold steel handcuffs around Mercer’s wrists, pulling him roughly from the chair. "Viktor Olin isn't answering his phone today, Mr. Mercer. And neither is anyone else who knows you."
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As Mercer was dragged through his own glass-walled lobby in full view of his forty employees, he looked out the window down at the street below.
Parked across the intersection was a black sedan. Standing beside the rear door was Alexander Hayes, holding a teacup from a sidewalk café, watching him be dragged away with cold, absolute indifference.
