Chapter 6 - The Trap Snaps Shut
Julian Croft didn't even have time to scream.
A non-lethal flashbang detonated in the foyer, flooding the room with blinding white light and an ear-splitting concussive roar. The sheer pressure wave knocked Julian off his feet, sending the Sig Sauer skittering across the polished floor.
Before he could scramble toward the weapon, Marcus slammed his combat boot down onto Julian’s right wrist, pinning it to the floor with enough force to crack the bone.
Julian groaned in agony, his face pressed against the walnut planks.
"Target secured," Marcus barked into his shoulder radio.
Four tactical officers from the NYPD Special Operations Division, accompanied by two federal agents wearing dark windbreakers with *FBI* emblazoned across the back, swarmed into the room with assault rifles raised.
"Julian Croft, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, attempted murder, wire fraud, and grand larceny," Special Agent Vance Miller announced, kneeling down and ratcheting heavy steel handcuffs around Julian’s wrists.
Julian spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at me through swollen, furious eyes. "You set me up! You tracked me!"
"I didn't track your phone, Julian," I said, crouching down beside him as Marcus recovered the hardware drives from the desk. "I tracked your helicopter’s private flight clearance. As an executive board member of the Manhattan Heliport Authority, I have administrative access to all emergency charter permits. When you requested an immediate rooftop departure at 3:15 AM, you signed your own warrant."
Agent Miller pulled an encrypted flash drive from Julian’s laptop. "We have the Swiss routing numbers. The transfers have been frozen at the intermediary federal reserve node in Richmond. Nothing left the country."
Julian began to thrash against the agents’ grip. "Celeste will never talk! You have nothing tying me to the poisoning! She bought the toxins! Her fingerprints are on the bottle, not mine!"
"Is that so?" I pulled my phone from my pocket and ended the recording.
I hit play.
Julian’s own voice echoed through the high-end study with digital clarity: *'Celeste was weak... I told her to let the Digoxin work over another three weeks. But she wanted her grand wedding...'*
Julian’s face went dead white. All the swagger, all the polished Wall Street arrogance evaporated, leaving behind a pathetic, trembling shell of a man.
"Take him away," Agent Miller ordered.
As they dragged Julian toward the elevator, I turned to Marcus. "Arthur Pendleton? Did the team get to his cabin in time?"
Marcus gave a tight, solemn nod. "He was badly beaten, Evelyn. Fractured ribs and a severe concussion. But our emergency team reached him ten minutes after your call. He’s alive, under armed guard at Albany Medical Center. And he’s singing like a canary to the Department of Justice."
A heavy breath escaped my lungs—the first real breath I had taken since Maria had screamed in the ballroom hours ago.
"How is my father?" I asked, my voice cracking with exhaustion.
"Mount Sinai called five minutes ago," Marcus said, his stern face softening with rare warmth. "The antidotes worked. He regained full consciousness. The toxins are clearing. He’s asking for you, Evelyn."
May you like
I closed my eyes, tears of relief finally burning hot against my cheeks. "Let's go home."
***
