Chapter 8 - THE GUESTS IN THE LIVING ROOMThe medics carefully strapped Wyatt onto the stretcher, easing his shattered knee into a stabilizing brace while administering a mild painkiller. Wyatt grabbed my hand as they lifted him toward the basement exit.
"Thank you, Dad," Wyatt whispered, tears welling in his eyes again. "I thought I was dead down here."
"You're a Yates, son," I squeezed his hand firmly. "We don't break that easily. Go to the hospital. I'll meet you there in a few minutes. I have some greetings to deliver upstairs."
As the stretcher was wheeled out through the rear mechanical-room door into the flashing red and blue lights of half a dozen police cruisers, I turned and walked up the basement stairs into the main house.
The living room was a scene of utter chaos.
Fifteen wealthy guests—business partners, socialites, and local elites—were lined up against the living room wall, their hands raised while federal agents stood guard with flashlights.
Marcus, the smarmy corporate lawyer who had drafted the fraudulent power of attorney, was sweating profusely in his expensive tuxedo, trying to argue with a towering federal agent near the fireplace.
"This is a mistake! I’m an attorney! I demand to speak to—" Marcus stopped mid-sentence as he saw me walk out of the basement stairwell, looking entirely composed in my simple jacket and work boots.
The room went dead silent. Fifteen pairs of wealthy, terrified eyes turned toward the old "truck driver" they had all ignored or sneered at when they arrived earlier that evening.
"Abraham?" Marcus stammered, his face turning pale. "What... what are you doing here? Where is Irving?"
I walked slowly across the polished hardwood floor, stopping right in front of Marcus.
"Irving is currently learning how to wear steel bracelets, Marcus," I said calmly. "And you're about to join him."
"Me?!" Marcus shrieked, his voice cracking in absolute panic. "I didn't do anything! I was just doing legal paperwork! I’m a licensed attorney!"
"You're a co-conspirator in grand larceny and attempted murder," I replied, pulling a folded document from my inner pocket and tapping it against his chest. "I have the encrypted email logs straight from your laptop, Marcus. Every draft of the forged power of attorney, every bank routing number you set up to siphon Heartland Freight funds to your offshore accounts in the Caymans."
Marcus’s knees buckled. He grabbed the edge of the fireplace mantel to keep from collapsing, his professional veneer completely shattered.
"Please..." Marcus whispered, tears spilling over his expensive silk tie. "Mr. Yates... I have a family... I was just following Irving's orders—"
"Save it for the judge," I said, gesturing to the federal agents. "Take him away."
As Marcus was dragged out in handcuffs, sobbing uncontrollably, the remaining guests pressed themselves tighter against the wall, too terrified to even breathe.
May you like
Then, outside, the church bells across Springfield began to ring out, signaling midnight.
Happy New Year.
