Chapter 6 - The Desperate Strike
By early January, the cold Midwest weather matched the utter devastation of the Collins family line.
Without their inflated corporate salaries, the dominoes fell with terrifying speed.
Martin’s $1.4 million Oakridge Estates mansion was hit with a preliminary foreclosure notice after his bank discovered his primary income source had vanished. Brad and Greg had to surrender four luxury vehicles to court-ordered repossession agents. The thirty-four extended family members who had been fired were now frantically filling out job applications at local retail stores and fast-food chains, cursing Martin’s name for ruining their comfortable lives.
In a small, dingy diner on the outskirts of Columbus, Martin sat across from his two sons, Brad and Greg. A pot of cheap filter coffee sat between them.
"We are ruined," Greg whispered, staring into his black coffee. "My wife is packing her bags to leave with the kids. She said she isn't going to stand by me while I go to prison for your stupid shell company scheme, Dad!"
"Shut up!" Martin snapped, though his own hands were shaking uncontrollably. "We aren't going down without a fight."
"What fight?!" Brad hissed quietly, looking around the empty diner. "Daniel has high-powered lawyers, the state prosecutor, the police, and seventeen million dollars! We have nothing!"
"We have leverage if we create it," Martin leaned across the table, his eyes narrow and crazed with desperation. "Daniel’s crown jewel project right now is the Whitaker Gateway Plaza—that $4.2 million commercial development downtown. If that project fails its state structural inspection on Friday, Whitaker Construction loses its city master license and faces millions in breach-of-contract penalties."
Greg frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"I still have the master security master key and the off-site access code for the site concrete mixing equipment," Martin whispered sinisterly. "I oversaw the early foundation framing before Daniel fired us. Tomorrow night, after the construction crews go home, we go into the Gateway site. We open the main drainage lines and pour quick-setting hydraulic cement directly into the primary municipal plumbing lines."
Brad gasped. "Dad, that’s felony structural sabotage!"
"It will cost him three million dollars to tear up the concrete floor to fix it!" Martin spat, a malicious, unhinged grin spreading across his face. "It will wreck his reputation with the city council. When he’s facing financial chaos and public failure, he’ll be forced to negotiate with us. He’ll drop the criminal charges in exchange for us giving him the site repair blueprints!"
"Dad... this is insane," Greg warned. "If we get caught..."
"We won't get caught!" Martin growled, slapping the table. "The night security guard at Gateway Plaza is Old Joe—he’s seventy years old and falls asleep in his guard shack by 10:00 p.m. We do it fast, we get out, and we break Daniel’s back."
At 11:15 p.m. on Thursday night, a dark, unmarked pickup truck pulled up into the muddy alley behind the sprawling, half-constructed site of Whitaker Gateway Plaza.
Martin, wearing a dark hoodie and work gloves, jumped out of the passenger side. Brad followed nervously behind him, carrying two heavy 50-pound bags of quick-setting commercial concrete mix.
"Keep your head down," Martin whispered, sneaking past the chain-link perimeter fence through a section where the wire had been cut.
They crept through the dark, exposed steel structure of the building, their flashlights pointing down at the freshly poured concrete sub-floor. They reached the main mechanical room—where the primary 10-inch municipal drainage pipes emerged from the floor.
"Here it is," Martin chuckled darkly, tapping the heavy PVC pipe with his wrench. "We pour the mix down this pipe, dump twenty gallons of water behind it, and by sunrise, this entire foundation will be solid rock. Daniel’s precious $4.2 million plaza will be a useless piece of junk."
"Hurry up, Dad," Brad whimpered, looking over his shoulder. "This feels wrong."
"Shut up and open the bags!" Martin commanded.
Brad sliced open the first paper bag with a utility knife and began tipping the dry grey powder into the exposed main drain opening.
Suddenly, floodlights erupted from every corner of the ceiling.
BZZZZZZZZZZT!
Blinding white light illuminated the entire mechanical room, making Martin and Brad shriek in horror and cover their eyes.
"Drop your tools! Put your hands on your heads immediately!" a booming voice echoed over a high-powered loudspeaker.
From the shadows beyond the floodlights, six armed officers from the Columbus Police Department SWAT unit stepped forward with guns drawn. Behind them stood two men in dark suits.
One was Detective Robert Vance. The other was me.
I stepped into the light, holding an iPad that was displaying a live, high-definition thermal night-vision video feed—which was currently recording Martin and Brad holding open bags of concrete over the drainage pipe.
"Hello, Martin," I said quietly, stepping over a stack of copper piping. "Did you really think I wouldn't change the security protocols on a $4.2 million project after firing you?"
Martin dropped his wrench, his mouth gaping open like a dying fish. "Daniel... how... how did you know?"
"I've known how your mind works for eight years, Martin," I said, tapping the iPad screen. "You're predictable, arrogant, and lazy. When faced with defeat, parasites always try to burn down the house. We installed motion-activated silent sensors and remote 4K cameras three days ago. Every word of your plan in the diner was recorded by a private investigator sitting two booths away from you."
Brad dropped to his knees, throwing his hands over his head and weeping hysterically. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! It was my father's idea! He forced me to come!"
"You pathetic coward!" Martin screamed at his son before whirling toward me, his face contorted in psychotic rage. "You set me up! You ruined my family! I’ll kill you, Daniel!"
Martin lunged toward me with his hands outstretched, but two SWAT officers instantly tackled him to the hard concrete floor, forcing his arms behind his back and snapping steel handcuffs around his wrists.
"Martin Collins," Detective Vance declared, pressing his knee firmly into Martin’s back. "You are under arrest for Felony Attempted Structural Sabotage, Commercial Burglary, Felony Vandalism, and Breach of a Protective Order. You have the right to remain silent..."
As they dragged Martin off the floor, his face pressed against the cold concrete, he looked up at me through bloodshot, tear-filled eyes.
"Daniel... please!" Martin sobbed, his arrogance completely shattered into dust. "I'm old! I won't survive prison! Think of Claire! Think of your family!"
May you like
I looked down at him with total, absolute indifference.
"You threw my sixteen-year-old daughter into the snow on Christmas Eve, Martin," I whispered, leaning in close so only he could hear. "You gave up your right to mercy a long time ago."
