Chapter 7 - THE FEDERAL MARSHALS DANCE"FEDERAL MARSHALS! NOBODY MOVE!"
The roar echoed through the house like rolling thunder. Heavy combat boots pounded across the hardwood floor upstairs, followed by the terrified screams of fifteen champagne-drinking elites scrambling in the dark.
Irving froze, the gun shaking in his hand as he whipped his head toward the stairs.
"What the...?" Irving sputtered.
"Drop the weapon! Drop it now!" a booming voice commanded from the top of the basement stairs.
Three heavily armed federal agents in tactical gear, night-vision goggles flipped down, flooded down the concrete steps with assault rifles aimed squarely at Irving's chest.
Irving dropped the revolver as if it had turned into a hot coal. It clattered loudly against the concrete floor.
"Hands behind your back! Down on your knees!" an agent barked, slamming Irving face-first onto the cold floor and slapping heavy steel handcuffs onto his wrists with practiced speed.
Sabrina shrieked as two more agents descended the stairs and grabbed her arms, spinning her around and cuffing her before she could even reach for her purse.
"Get your hands off me! Do you know who my father is?! Do you know who I am?!" Sabrina screamed, kicking her high heels wildly against the stairs.
"Yeah, we know," an agent replied coldly, reading off a digital tablet. "Sabrina Vance and Irving Vance. Arrested for kidnapping, extortion, attempted murder, and corporate wire fraud."
I slowly walked past them, picked up my manila folder from the floor, and dusted it off against my thigh.
I looked down at Irving, who was pinned beneath the boot of a federal marshal, spitting blood and dirt.
"You forgot one crucial detail, Irving," I said softly, looking down at him. "When you're dealing with a multi-hundred-million-dollar transportation empire, you don't just rely on local police. You have a direct line to federal corporate oversight—and when someone tries to hijack a critical logistics supply chain, it becomes a federal offense."
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Irving glared up at me with pure hatred, his face bruised against the concrete. "You... you set us up."
"No," I replied, turning my back on him as medics rushed down the stairs with a stretcher for my son. "You loaded the truck. I just drove it off a cliff."
