Chapter 8 - The Ledger of Blood
Detective Whitaker Doyle stepped forward, placing the green Pelican evidence case onto the center of the table with a heavy, concussive thud.
He clicked the four latches open, pulling out the original, uncorrupted forensic ledgers, the micro-cassette audio recordings, and the sworn confession of the mercenary commander captured on the lawn four hours earlier.
"Under emergency judicial warrants issued by the United States District Court at 6:00 AM today, Mr. Lyle," Detective Doyle announced, his voice booming across the room, "the entire executive board of the New England Maritime Alliance is under federal arrest for First-Degree Premeditated Murder, Arson for Financial Gain, Corporate Securities Fraud, and Interstate Racketeering."
Doyle connected his tablet to the seventy-foot digital display wall.
The massive screens illuminated instantly, playing the synchronized audio recordings recovered from the subterranean vault:
Prescott Lyle: "Make sure the guesthouse burns to the foundation. Use the thermite charges on the structural beams. The city inspectors have already been paid fifty thousand dollars to certify two bodies in the ashes. The Ostrander trust dies tonight."
The boardroom erupted into furious, panicked shouts. Directors shoved their chairs back in open horror, backing away from Prescott Lyle as if he were covered in a lethal plague.
Lyle backed against the panoramic glass window, his hands trembling violently, his expensive veneer completely pulverized into dust. "This... this is an illegal data extraction! I have immunity under state maritime covenants!"
Nathan walked slowly down the center aisle of the boardroom, stopping two feet from where Lyle stood trembling.
"Your immunity was revoked six years ago, Prescott," Nathan whispered, his voice dropping into a register of sub-zero steel. "You thought you could slaughter an innocent family, steal their name, and laugh at an auction because you believed money was stronger than blood."
Nathan reached out, his powerful hand grasping Lyle’s silk tie, tightening his grip with slow, terrifying precision until the billionaire was forced onto his tiptoes.
"You laughed when I paid three point two million dollars for my family's house," Nathan murmured softly. "Now let's see how much you laugh in a federal supermax cell in Florence, Colorado."
May you like
Nathan released the tie, letting Lyle collapse onto the carpet, gasping for breath.
Four armed federal marshals stepped forward, clicking heavy steel transport chains around Prescott Lyle’s wrists and ankles, dragging the disgraced predator from his own boardroom in chains as the entire assembly watched in stony, condemning silence.
