Chapter 9 - THE FINAL STAND AT THE BRIDGEFrank raised the pistol, aiming dead center at Katherine’s chest. His face was twisted into a mask of cold, corporate sociopathy.
"No hard feelings, girls," Frank murmured, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Just business."
Before the hammer could drop, the dense forest behind Frank erupted with flashing red and blue lights.
A dozen unmarked federal cruisers and state police vehicles swarmed out from the logging trails, tires screaming on the gravel, doors flying open as heavily armed tactical officers poured out with automatic rifles raised.
"FBI! DROP YOUR WEAPON! DROP IT NOW!" Agent Miller’s voice boomed through a megaphone, cutting through the crackle of the burning cabin.
Frank froze, the pistol trembling in his hand. He glanced from the armed tactical team closing in on him to Katherine, who stood defiantly in the middle of the muddy clearing, her eyes burning with an unyielding fire.
"You're too late," Frank hissed, a manic grin spreading across his face. "The offshore accounts are transferred. Caleb is already out on bail awaiting trial. The syndicate owns half the judges in this state. You can't touch us!"
"You forgot one minor detail, Frank," a calm, chillingly familiar voice echoed from the passenger seat of the lead FBI cruiser.
The door swung open, and out stepped Caleb—cuffed at the wrists, wearing an orange jumpsuit, looking paler and more broken than he had on his wedding night.
Frank’s jaw dropped. "Caleb? What the hell—you agreed to take the fall—"
"I didn't take the fall, Uncle Frank," Caleb said softly, his voice trembling as he looked across the clearing at Katherine and his mother standing in the ash and mud. "When the feds intercepted my dad's ledger at the house this morning, they offered me a full plea deal. Immunity in exchange for the master encryption keys to the syndicate's primary offshore accounts. You were never my partner, Frank. You were just holding my leash. And I just cut it."
Frank screamed in rage, swinging the pistol toward Caleb—a fatal mistake.
RAT-A-TAT-TAT!
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A volley of non-lethal beanbag rounds and tactical flashbangs erupted from the FBI perimeter. Frank was slammed backward against the side of his SUV, the pistol flying from his hand as three federal agents piled on top of him, pinning him to the gravel in a tangle of limbs and steel cuffs.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackle of the burning cabin and the distant rush of the creek.
