Chapter 5 - The Confrontation
I kicked the door of the study open.
Richard stood behind his massive mahogany desk, his face glistening with sweat. In his right hand, he held a compact 9mm pistol, his arm shaking so violently the barrel was tracing small circles in the air.
Beatrice was cowering in the corner, clutching her velvet bag of jewelry to her chest.
"Don't come any closer!" Richard screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. "I'll kill you! I swear to God, Arthur, I'll put a bullet in your chest!"
"You couldn't even keep your hand steady, Richard," I said, my voice dropping into a low, terrifying calm. I did not draw my weapon. I simply kept my hands at my sides. "You only know how to fight people who are smaller than you. People who can't fight back."
"I made your daughter a queen!" Richard shrieked. "She was nothing before she met me! She lived in a drafty cabin with a pathetic, retired old soldier! I gave her a life!"
"You gave her bruises," I corrected him, taking a step forward. "You gave her fear. You gave her a split lip because your ego couldn't handle the fact that she was smarter, kinder, and better than you could ever hope to be."
"Stay back!" Richard yelled, squeezing the trigger.
Click.
The gun didn't fire.
He pulled the trigger again. Click. Click.
"Sarah cleared the firing pin database on that specific smart-gun model five minutes ago," I said, taking another step forward. "Your weapon is just an expensive piece of metal, Richard. Just like your company. Just like your name."
Richard let out a primal scream of frustration and threw the pistol at my head. I ducked slightly, letting the weapon crash into the bookshelf behind me.
Before he could run, I closed the distance between us.
My hand closed around his neck—exactly where his fingerprints had left bruises on my daughter's throat.
I lifted him off his feet, his expensive silk shirt tearing under the pressure of my grip. He clawed at my wrists, his legs kicking uselessly in the air, his eyes wide with a sudden, absolute terror as he realized he was completely powerless.
"Do you know who I am, Richard?" I whispered, my face inches from his. "Do you know what my unit did in the deserts of Iraq? In the jungles of Colombia? We didn't fight for money. We fought to protect the people who couldn't protect themselves. And we never, ever left a monster standing."
"Arthur, please!" Beatrice sobbed from the floor. "Don't kill him! He's my son!"
"You should have taught your son how to be a man, Beatrice," I said, without looking at her.
I slammed Richard down onto his mahogany desk. The wood cracked under his weight. I pulled a set of steel zip-ties from my vest and secured his wrists behind his back with a force that made him howl in pain.
"Marcus," I called out.
Marcus stepped into the room, holding a black leather ledger he had retrieved from the wall safe behind the painting. "Got it, Arthur. This has every offshore transaction, every bribed official, and every tax evasion record for the last ten years."
"Excellent," I said.
I looked down at Richard, who was sobbing into his desk, his face pressed against the expensive wood.
"The police are coming, Richard," I said. "But not the ones you bought. The state police and the FBI are currently entering your property. Your mother is going to have to find a very good lawyer, though I doubt she can afford one after Sarah finishes with your accounts."
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I turned my back on them, walking out of the ruined mansion into the cool night air.
The lights of dozens of federal vehicles were already reflecting off the pine trees, their sirens wailing in a symphony of justice.
