Chapter 5 - THE CONFESSION ON LIVE WIRE"Get up," Ethan snarled, reaching down to grab my arm with the same brutal grip that had left the bruises on my ribs weeks ago.
I screamed as he dragged me out of the hatch onto the cold hardwood floor of the kitchen.
"Ethan, stop! You're hurting the baby!" I sobbed, clutching my belly.
"I don't care about the baby anymore, Claire!" he hissed, pressing the cold barrel of the gun against my temple. "The baby was just a leverage point to get the land rights. Now that the federal marshals are involved, I just need the money to get out of the country. Log into the portal on your phone. Transfer the funds to Zurich right now, or I swear to God I’ll leave both of you in this kitchen."
"She can't transfer anything, Ethan," my father’s voice came from the darkness of the dining room.
Ethan spun around, keeping his arm wrapped tight around my neck as a human shield, pressing the gun deeper into my side. "Don't move, Colonel! I’ll shoot her! I swear I’ll shoot her!"
My father stepped slowly into the pale moonlight entering through the kitchen window. He was bleeding from a graze on his shoulder, but his hands were steady, his weapon lowered at his hip.
"Look at the phone on the counter, Ethan," my father said softly.
Ethan’s eyes flicked over to my phone, which was sitting on the island counter, its screen glowing brightly.
Across the top of the screen ran a bright red header: LIVE BROADCAST - 485,000 VIEWERS.
Ethan froze. "What... what is that?"
"When you kicked the front door in," I whispered through the grip on my throat, "I didn't just hide. I hit the emergency broadcast button on my private blog—the one with half a million followers that Margaret thought was just my personal pregnancy journal."
Ethan’s breathing hitched. "You... you didn't."
"Every word you just said," I said, my voice growing stronger as rage washed away my fear, "every threat about the baby, every word about the land rights, Dr. Sterling, and the Zurich accounts... went out live to half a million people. Including the Pentagon."
The comment section on the screen was scrolling so fast it was a blur of light: “IS THIS REAL?!” “CALL THE POLICE!” “THAT’S CAPTAIN ETHAN COLE!” “SOMEONE SAVE HER!”
Ethan dropped his jaw. The psychological fortress he and his mother had built—the pristine, bulletproof reputation of a perfect army officer and his respectable Greenwich family—was shattered instantly on screens across the entire world.
"Turn it off!" Ethan shrieked, swinging the gun toward the phone.
BANG!
My father didn't miss. His round struck Ethan’s right shoulder.
Ethan screamed, dropping his weapon as the force knocked him backward against the refrigerator. He slid down the stainless steel panel, leaving a streak of red behind him, clutching his shoulder in agony.
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Outside, the thunderous roar of military helicopters filled the night sky. Searchlights flooded the cabin through the shattered windows, turning the dark kitchen as bright as high noon.
"CAPTAIN ETHAN COLE," a megaphone boomed from above. "THIS IS THE UNITED STATES MARSHALS AND MILITARY POLICE. SURRENDER IMMEDIATELY."
