Chapter 9 - The Blood on the Adirondacks
The heavy doors of the ballroom swung open once more, and six federal agents wearing Federal Bureau of Investigation tactical windbreakers marched down the center aisle, flanked by United States Attorney Marcus Sterling.
Attorney Sterling carried a thick, wax-sealed dossier bearing the seal of the Department of Justice’s Major Crimes Division.
He walked straight onto the stage, stopping two feet from where Jaxson was groveling on the floor.
“Jaxson Vance,” Attorney Sterling announced, his voice booming through the silent ballroom with the absolute weight of federal law.
“You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit first-degree premeditated murder, corporate sabotage, treasonous theft of classified defense technology, and felony aggravated assault.”
Jaxson’s head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes filled with manic terror.
“Murder?!” Jaxson gasped, his voice cracking into a high-pitched wheeze.
“What murder?! I never killed anyone!”
I stepped forward, opening a folder that Alistair handed me, projecting an unsealed black-box audio recording onto the main sound system.
The recording was dated five years ago, captured from the private avionics system of my father’s doomed Gulfstream jet over the Adirondack Mountains.
Jaxson’s recorded voice echoed through the high-definition speakers with chilling, unmistakable arrogance:
“The hydraulic actuator has been sabotaged with the thermite charge. Make sure the plane hits the mountain at four hundred knots so there's nothing left for a forensic autopsy. Once Julian Sinclair is dead, the entire defense contract falls right into our laps.”
The entire ballroom gasped in collective, horrified outrage.
Jaxson’s mother, Eleanor Vance, who had been sitting in the VIP box, clutched her throat and collapsed face-first onto the banquet table, fainting into her crystal bowl of caviar.
Jaxson stared at the speakers as if the ghost of my father had walked into the room to claim his soul.
“How… where did you find that…?” Jaxson choked, blood trickling from his lip where he had bitten through the flesh in terror.
“My father knew you were a snake, Jaxson,” I whispered, looking down at him with unfiltered disgust.
“He installed a secondary, military-grade black-box telemetry beacon that transmitted directly to my private server before his aircraft went down.”
“I spent five years waiting, gathering the banking trails, and letting you dig your own grave until the evidence was indisputable.”
“You didn't just steal a patent, Jaxson.”
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“You murdered my father.”
“And tonight, you pay the debt in full.”
