Chapter 7 - The Master of the House
Victor Cole pulled the trigger.
In a closed room, against an untrained civilian, a .45 at five feet is a death sentence.
Against a Marine master instructor who had taught counter-retention drills for a decade and a half, pulling a trigger with trembling, telegraphing fingers is an invitation to dissection.
The instant Victor’s knuckle whitened on the steel, my left hand slapped the slide of the pistol outward, deflecting the muzzle three inches to the left.
BANG!
The heavy bullet tore through the empty air, burying itself harmlessly in the mahogany frame of the window behind me. The concussive blast blew the curtains back, the smell of burnt gunpowder filling the room.
Before the slide could cycle the next round, my right hand clamped down over Victor’s wrist, twisting his arm in a brutal rotational lock that forced his palm upward toward the ceiling. The tendons in his forearm popped. He screamed, dropping the chrome pistol onto the desk.
I didn't let go of his wrist.
I pulled him forward over the heavy desk, scattering piles of currency and legal documents across the floor, and drove my left forearm across the back of his neck, smashing his face flat against the polished mahogany.
Victor’s nose broke against his own paperwork. He let out a muffled, pathetic howl of agony, thrashing his legs, but my two-hundred-pound frame held him down like an iron anvil.
"Two broken ribs," I whispered into his ear, pressing my weight down just enough to make every breath a struggle. "A concussion. Lacerations across her brow. You thought my little girl was weak because she didn't carry a gun, Victor?"
"Please..." Victor wheezed, his face mashed into a stack of bearer bonds, his blood soaking through his own offshore account numbers. "I’ll give you five million... ten million... whatever you want! Just let me walk!"
"My daughter’s dignity isn't for sale," I replied.
I reached down, grabbed a handful of his greasy hair, and pulled his head up so he could look toward the doorway.
The double doors swung open again.
Special Agent Frank Vance stepped into the study, flanked by four federal tactical officers with their weapons at low-ready. Vance took off his tactical helmet, looked at the stacks of cash, the open safe, and Victor pinned beneath my arm.
"Federal search warrant executed at 0418 hours," Vance declared formally, a broad, triumphant grin spreading across his face. "Victor Cole, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, federal racketeering, money laundering, and interstate extortion."
I released my grip on Victor's neck.
Two federal agents hauled the kingpin off the desk, jerking his arms behind his back and snapping heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists. Victor slumped between them, sobbing, his silk robe torn, his empire reduced to evidence bags and digital forensics drives.
Vance walked over to the safe, pulled out a thick black leather ledger containing twenty years of bribe payments to local officials, and whistled softly.
"This is the holy grail, Robert," Vance said, turning the ledger in his hands. "Every crooked cop, every bought prosecutor, every state representative on his payroll is in this book. Dustin wasn't just an MMA prospect; he was laundering Victor’s fight-fixing profits through regional promotions across four states."
"Take it," I said, wiping a smear of Victor's blood from my knuckles. "Burn his world to the ground, Frank."
"And what about you?" Vance asked, looking at my exhausted face and torn flannel shirt.
I looked out the shattered window toward the east.
May you like
The first pale, golden rays of morning light were breaking through the clouds over the lake, burning away the mist and the darkness that had held this county in fear for twenty years.
"I’m going back to the hospital," I told him. "My daughter is waiting for her breakfast."
