Chapter 4 - THE CONFESSION
Dominic’s face drained of color in less than a second, the loud, obnoxious bravado evaporating into thin air as cold, unadulterated terror took its place.
"You..." Dominic stammered, his hand twitching nervously near his holster before he realized half a dozen federal rifles were instantly trained on his chest. "You're... you're that guy from the diner. The mechanic."
"Mechanics fix engines, Dominic," I said, descending another step until I towered over him. "We diagnose problems, strip away the junk, and replace what's broken. And right now, this county is running on completely compromised parts."
"You can't do this," Dominic whispered, sweat beading instantly along his hairline. He looked desperately toward the street, as if expecting half a dozen local deputies to rush to his rescue, but his police department was currently being locked down by federal cyber-units. "This is local jurisdiction. You don't have authority here without the governor's sign-off—"
"Article 120 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, combined with Title 18 Section 1385 of the federal code," Paul Reynolds interrupted smoothly, snapping open his briefcase and pulling out a thick sheaf of stamped documents. "Furthermore, Sheriff Vance, your department has been systematically intercepting United States military supply shipments destined for Malmstrom Air Force Base. We have satellite logs, wiretap transcripts of your communications with local chop-shop syndicates, and digital ledgers showing three hundred thousand dollars in kickbacks routed through your personal offshore accounts."
Amelia stumbled out onto the porch behind me, her legs shaking so badly she had to grab the wooden railing for support.
"Offshore... accounts?" she whispered, staring at Dominic as if seeing a monster for the very first time. "Dominic... you said those shipments were just scrap metal. You said you were just helping local businesses clear inventory..."
Dominic didn't look at her. He couldn't. His career, his local empire, and his freedom were dissolving into ash right before his eyes.
"And let's not forget the assault charge," I added, stepping right up to his chest. "Pouring dairy products on a civilian is a misdemeanor, Dominic. But doing it to a serving-reserve federal asset during an active counter-intelligence surveillance operation? That’s classified interference with national security operations. Maximum sentence: twenty years in a federal penitentiary without parole."
Dominic's knees buckled slightly. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out—only a pathetic, ragged gasp of air.
May you like
"Cuff him," I ordered.
Before the words had even finished echoing across the yard, two federal investigators stepped forward, wrenched Dominic's arms behind his back, and slammed the steel handcuffs onto his wrists with a sharp, metallic click.
