Chapter 10 - The Broadcast
“—breaking developments in the ongoing Moretti corporate scandal,” the news anchor’s voice crackled through the dashboard speakers, sharp and urgent. “Early this morning, federal regulators issued an emergency warrant for the arrest of Dominic Moretti, following allegations of massive financial fraud, embezzlement, and a violent armed breakout at Manhattan General Hospital—”
“What?” Grace gasped, staring at the radio in absolute disbelief. “That’s... that’s a complete lie! They flipped the narrative!”
I sat frozen, listening to the anchor continue.
“...authorities confirm that Moretti, presumed to be recovering from a suspicious traffic accident last week, assaulted hospital security, discharged a firearm within the facility, and fled with a civilian employee. A city-wide manhunt is currently underway...”
The audio switched to a live press conference.
Veronica Hale stood behind a podium at police headquarters, dressed in a conservative black blazer, her eyes glistening with perfectly rehearsed tears as she clutched a handkerchief.
“Dominic was a good man once,” Veronica’s voice trembled through the speakers, dripping with manufactured tragedy. “But the head trauma from his recent car crash... it broke his mind. He became paranoid, violent, and erratic. When my cousin Anthony tried to help him get psychiatric care, Dominic attacked the staff and took an innocent hospital worker hostage.”
A cold, humorless laugh escaped my lips. She was rewriting history in real time, turning my survival into proof of my insanity, sealing the board vote before the sun even came up.
“She’s framing you as a madman,” Grace whispered, her voice shaking with rage. “If the public believes that, nobody will ever look at the ledger. They’ll just shoot you on sight.”
“Let them try,” I whispered, shifting the van into drive as the first gray light of dawn began to bleed through the salt-crusted windows of the pier.
I reached down, picked up the encrypted satellite phone from the glove compartment, and dialed a ten-digit number I hadn't used in five years—the private secure line of the United States Attorney for the Southern District.
The line rang twice before a gruff, tired voice answered.
May you like
“Federal task force. State your name and clearance code.”
“This is Dominic Moretti,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the rain-slicked concrete stretching out toward the river. “And I have forty-eight gigabytes of corporate wire fraud that says the woman currently standing at police headquarters is about to learn what a real manhunt looks like.”
