Chapter 2 - THE CRACK IN THE EMPIREAt 6:00 AM, the digital silence of Sterling Falls was shattered not by sirens, but by notifications.
In the master bedroom of the Sterling manor, Charles’s customized smartphone buzzed violently against the mahogany nightstand. He rolled over, grunting in irritation, and swiped the screen.
ALERT: PRIMARY ACCOUNT FROZEN. ALERT: ASSET SEIZURE WARRANT ISSUED BY US DISTRICT COURT. ALERT: STERLING TIMBER MILL OPERATIONS SUSPENDED PENDING FEDERAL ENVIRONMENTAL AND LABOR AUDIT.
Charles sat straight up, the alcohol instantly evaporating from his bloodstream. He tapped frantically, opening his corporate banking app. Every single balance flashed a stark, bleeding red: $0.00.
"Evelyn! Wake up!" he roared, shaking his wife awake.
Down the hall, Rowan and Jaxson—still hungover from a night of celebrating their brutality—woke to the pounding of their cell phones. Rowan stumbled out of bed, pulling on a silk robe, and threw open his bedroom door just as his phone rang. It was the head of security at the lumber mill.
"Mr. Sterling, you need to get down here right now!" the guard shouted over the phone, panic choking his voice. "There are federal agents at every gate. They aren't local cops. They're wearing black tactical gear with IRS Criminal Investigation and FBI patches. They've chained the heavy machinery and locked the payroll accounts!"
"Are you insane? Call Sheriff Landry!" Rowan screamed, his face turning purple. "Tell him to clear them out at gunpoint!"
"Sheriff Landry can't help you, sir," the guard whispered. "He's sitting in his cruiser outside the gate right now, crying into his steering wheel. The feds just served him a federal indictment for corruption and obstruction of justice."
Rowan dropped his phone. It hit the polished hardwood floor with a hollow clatter.
In the kitchen, Miranda Sterling poured her morning coffee, her hand shaking so violently the dark liquid sloshed over the rim of her porcelain cup. She remembered the cold night four days ago. She remembered standing at the second-story window, watching her brothers swing a tire iron at her own flesh and blood. She remembered the chilling satisfaction of pulling the heavy velvet curtains shut to block out the crying.
May you like
She walked over to the bay window and pulled back the curtain.
Where local delivery trucks and bowing townsfolk usually waited, a blockade of unmarked federal SUVs now lined the private driveway. And standing at the head of the procession, wearing a crisp uniform with ribbons that commanded absolute terror and respect, was Marcus Vance.
