Chapter 8 - THE COLLAPSE OF THE HOUSE OF CARDSThe sirens started three minutes later, but they weren't police sirens.
They were federal black-and-whites, flanked by unmarked SUVs from the U.S. Attorney’s Organized Crime Strike Force. The precinct hallway filled with the crisp, authoritative shouts of federal agents clearing the floor, their assault rifles held at high port.
Leading the charge was a tall, silver-haired woman in a charcoal pantsuit—Special Agent-in-Charge Katherine Vance—no relation to Tyrell, though the coincidence had always amused Dante. She stepped into Office 304, her eyes sweeping over the shattered door, the splintered desk, the pinned detective, and the calm, collected figure of Dante Moretti leaning against the window frame.
"Dante," Agent Vance said, her voice dry as parchment. "You have a remarkable talent for making local law enforcement look like a daycare center."
"It's not my fault, Katherine," Dante replied, gesturing with his chin toward the wreckage. "The furniture in this department is terribly substandard. It breaks under the slightest pressure."
Tyrell, pinned beneath Nero’s massive weight, coughed violently, spitting blood onto the carpet. "Arrest them!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with hysteria. "They're felons! They broke in! That dog attacked a police officer!"
Agent Vance walked slowly over to the desk, completely ignoring Tyrell’s screams. She looked down at Harper, who stood calm and resolute beside Emma.
"Mrs. Vance," the agent said, her tone professional, laced with a strange, respectful undertone. "I take it you brought what we discussed?"
Harper looked down at the leather ledger in her hands. With a steady motion, she extended it forward and placed it directly into the federal agent's palm.
"Every name," Harper said clearly. "Every bank routing number. And the dates of every drop."
Agent Vance flipped open the cover, scanning the handwritten pages with practiced eyes. A grim, satisfied smile touched the corners of her mouth. She pulled a pair of heavy steel handcuffs from her belt, turned around, and walked over to the pinned detective.
"Detective Tyrell Vance," Agent Vance said loudly, her voice ringing off the concrete walls. "You are under arrest for racketeering, federal conspiracy, obstruction of justice, and the unauthorized distribution of classified law enforcement intelligence."
"You can't do this!" Tyrell roared, struggling beneath the mastiff. "I’m a cop! I’m protected!"
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"You were protected as long as you were useful," Agent Vance replied coldly, snapping the cuffs onto Tyrell’s wrists with a sharp, metallic click. "Now you're just evidence."
She nodded to two federal agents standing in the doorway. They stepped forward, hauled Tyrell roughly to his feet by his biceps, and dragged him out of the office, his expensive shoes trailing uselessly across the broken glass.
