Chapter 9 - The Billionaire’s Arrogance
Inside the panic room, Walter Holbrook was frantically trying to load a custom semi-automatic shotgun with shaking hands.
Beside him, Brantley Sterling had collapsed into a fetal position under the conference table, sobbing uncontrollably. Wyatt Holbrook stood behind his father, his face pale as a corpse, holding a chef’s knife with white-knuckled desperation.
I walked into the room, Marcus and Leo flanking me on either side.
Walter raised the shotgun, aiming it squarely at my forehead.
“Get back!” Walter screamed, his voice cracking with hysteria. “I have government immunity! I have private defense contracts signed by the President of the United States! You can’t touch me!”
“Your defense contracts were canceled forty minutes ago, Walter,” Leo Castiglione said calmly, holding up a certified digital decree from the Department of Defense. “Holbrook Defense Industries has been officially blacklisted from all federal contracting due to treasonous procurement fraud, illegal domestic surveillance, and attempted murder of a military dependent.”
“No... that’s impossible!” Walter stammered. “I built this company!”
“You built it on blood, kickbacks, and the suffering of innocent people,” I said, walking slowly toward the barrel of his shotgun.
“I’ll pull the trigger, Vance! I swear to God I’ll paint this wall with your brains!”
“You won’t,” I said, my voice utterly devoid of fear. “Because men like you only know how to hurt people when you’re hiding behind bank accounts and bought politicians. When you look death in the face, you’re nothing but a coward.”
I reached out, grabbed the barrel of the shotgun, and smoothly forced it upward toward the ceiling.
Walter tried to pull the trigger, but Marcus Hayes stepped in, his massive hand clamping over Walter’s wrist with bone-snapping force. Walter shrieked in pain, dropping the shotgun to the floor.
Marcus pushed the billionaire CEO into an armchair, securing his wrists with heavy-duty flex-cuffs.
Now, only Wyatt Holbrook remained standing.
The boy who had pinned my daughter’s arms behind her back while Chad beat her stood shivering against the wall, holding his kitchen knife out like a child holding a stick against a tiger.
“Stay away from me!” Wyatt cried, tears streaming down his face. “My dad told me nothing would ever happen to us! He told me we were above the law!”
“He lied to you, Wyatt,” I said softly, stepping closer.
“I didn't hit her!” Wyatt wailed. “Chad was the one who hit her! I just held her!”
“You held her so she couldn't defend herself,” I said, stopping two feet from him. “You took away her ability to fight back. You watched her bleed, and you laughed.”
Wyatt lunged forward with the knife in a blind, pathetic attempt to strike.
I caught his wrist mid-air. With a gentle, effortless twist, the knife dropped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. I pulled him forward, forcing him to look directly into my eyes.
“You thought her father was nobody,” I whispered into his ear. “Remember this moment for the rest of your life. When you are sitting in a federal cell, remember the face of the father who took down your entire world.”
I shoved him back onto the sofa beside Brantley.
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Outside, the wailing sirens of sixty state and federal police vehicles filled the night air. The entire perimeter of the estate was surrounded by federal marshals, state troopers, and military police.
The reign of the Oakwood untouchables was officially over.
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