Chapter 5 - The Arrival of Wade Cain
Before the mayor could answer, the gravel outside the diner crunched under the heavy tires of a white Cadillac Escalade.
The vehicle didn't park in a designated spot; it nosed right up to the diner's front steps, blocking one of the military SUVs.
The rear door swung open, and Wade Cain stepped out.
At seventy years old, Wade still moved with the heavy, unyielding authority of a man who had spent his life buying people, land, and silence. He wore a custom-tailored charcoal suit that looked entirely out of place against the grease-stained asphalt of Route 9, and he carried a silver-handled walking stick that he didn't actually need for support.
He didn't look at the state troopers. He didn't look at the military vehicles. He pushed past the perimeter tape as if it were a cobweb, shoving his way through the glass door of the diner with his eyes fixed entirely on me.
"What in God's name is going on in my town?" Wade boomed, his voice filling the room like rolling thunder.
Travis scrambled up from the booth, rushing toward his father. "Dad! They're crazy! They brought soldiers in here—they're trying to steal the lease!"
Wade ignored his son entirely. He walked past Mayor Brooks, past the cowering sheriff, and stopped six feet from where I stood beside my mother.
"Nicole," Wade said, his voice dropping into a smooth, practiced register of oily condescension. "I was sorry to hear about your mother’s little accident. Slipping on a wet floor is no joke at her age. But dragging the United States Army into a local real estate negotiation? That’s a federal offense under the Posse Comitatus Act, young lady. I'd expect better from a career officer."
I didn't blink. I didn't flinch.
"You're a bit late on your legal definitions, Mr. Cain," I said, my voice steady and cold. "The Posse Comitatus Act doesn't apply when federal logistics assets and anti-corruption task forces are operating under a direct executive logistics warrant."
Wade’s eyes narrowed slightly, the first real sign of tension appearing around the corners of his mouth. He looked at Major Vance, then back at me, finally registering the cold, absolute certainty in my posture.
"You think you're very smart, don't you?" Wade muttered, taking a slow step forward, his walking stick tapping rhythmically against the floor tiles. "Just like your old man. He thought he could stand in the way of progress, too. And look where it got him—stuck in a ditch with a broken neck on a Tuesday night."
The diner went dead silent.
My mother let out a sharp, choked gasp behind the counter, her hands flying to her mouth.
Wade realized a second too late what he had just admitted. He stopped walking, his jaw slackening just a fraction as the full weight of the words hung in the stale air between us.
I didn't yell. I didn't lunge across the counter.
May you like
I simply reached down, unbuckled the retention strap of my service holster, and looked straight at Major Vance.
"Major," I said quietly. "Record that statement for the magistrate."
