*CLACK.
*
Carter never cleared the table.
From the hallway behind me, the sound of eight-inch combat boots striking the polished concrete floorboards echoed with concussive, military authority:
*STOMP.
STOMP.
STOMP.
*
Stepping through the shattered frame of the double doors, moving with that fluid, terrifying, synchronized velocity of an active-duty federal tactical stack…
Were eight armed tactical operators from the **United States Marshals Service // Special Operations Group**, their suppressed carbines held at high-ready retention, their Level IV ceramic torso plates bearing the gold lettering:
**USMS // SPECIAL ASSET ENFORCEMENT**
And walking between them, wearing an un-ironed dark-charcoal trench coat over an un-buttoned civilian suit, carrying an unsealed, red-labeled legal folio bound in dark-blue calfskin…
Was **Detective Sergeant Marcus Vance**.
The Colorado State Trooper who had handed me the defibrillator pads on the gravel of Route 6 three hours ago.
Except Marcus Vance was no longer wearing his state patrol uniform.
Pinned to the lapel of his civilian coat was the gold five-pointed star of the **United States Department of Justice // Criminal Division Special Task Force**.
Marcus stepped into the boardroom.
He did not look at Nick.
He did not look at the other eight partners trembling against the wall.
He walked straight to Carter Holbrook, caught the billionaire by the collar of his double-breasted navy blazer with an unyielding, mechanical grip, and slammed his two-hundred-pound frame down onto the walnut table with concussive force:
*SLAM.
*
Carter’s cheek struck the broken glass of my family photograph, blood welling along his jawline:Chemistry
*CLICK-CLACK.
*
A pair of heavy-duty, double-locking stainless-steel transport restraints ratcheted around Carter Holbrook’s manicured wrists with two sharp, definitive snaps that sounded like twin rifle shots across the quiet room:
“CARTER HOLBROOK,” Sergeant Vance’s voice boomed through the vaulted ceiling:
“UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF THE UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLORADO AND TITLE EIGHTEEN OF THE UNITED STATES CODE, YOU ARE PLACED UNDER IMMEDIATE ARREST FOR ATTEMPTED PREMEDITATED CAPITAL HOMICIDE, ENTERPRISE RACKETEERING (RICO), GRAND-SCALE MARITIME TITLE FORGERY, AND INTERSTATE WIRE FRAUD!”
Nick Sterling let out a high-pitched, strangling squeak, his knees completely liquefying beneath his two-thousand-dollar Zegna trousers.
He collapsed sideways onto the floorboards, his hands clawing at Marcus Vance’s boots, weeping with the wet, pathetic, sniveling sobs of an accountant who had finally arrived at the end of the spreadsheet and discovered that the balance was an open grave:
“Officer!
Please!
It was Carter!
FULL STORY on the next page.