Chapter 6 - The Echo in the Hallway
The heavy thud of boots echoing down the east wing hallway didn't sound like federal agents. Federal marshals moved with synchronized discipline, heel-to-toe, announcing their presence with professional restraint. These footsteps were erratic, heavy, and frantic—the rush of desperate people who knew they had nothing left to lose.
"Mom," Emily whispered, her voice trembling as she grabbed my sleeve, her knuckles turning white. "Who could that be? The feds already took Ethan and Brandon."
"Stay behind me," I said, my voice dropping into the steady, absolute register of a commanding officer preparing for an ambush.
I didn't reach for a weapon—I didn't carry one off-base—but my hand instinctively closed around the heavy brass paperweight sitting on the edge of Ethan's desk. In my other hand, I kept the autopsy report clutched tight against my side, the name on the parchment still obscured by the shadows of the open wall safe.
The footsteps stopped right outside the threshold of the study.
The door, which had been standing ajar, pushed inward with a soft creak. Standing in the doorway wasn't a federal agent or a stray security guard. It was Richard Prescott—Uncle Richard, the patriarch's brother and the corporate fixer who was supposed to have been indicted the afternoon before.
He didn't look like an untouchable old-money lawyer anymore. His tie was missing, his silver hair was plastered to his sweaty forehead, and his hand shook visibly as he clutched a heavy leather Gladstone bag against his chest. When his eyes locked onto mine, standing over the open floor safe with the autopsy report in my hand, his face went completely gray.
"Colonel Hart," Richard breathed out, his chest heaving as if he had run a mile. "Put that down. You have no idea what you're holding."
"I think I have a very clear idea, Richard," I replied, my voice slicing through the tense air like a bayonet. "It’s a six-year-old medical examiner's report detailing an 'accidental overdose' that happened right here in this house. Funny thing about overdoses—they usually leave a body. Where was she buried, Richard? Or did you and Margaret use your municipal connections to skip the cemetery entirely?"
Richard flinched, taking a half-step backward into the hallway before recovering his balance. His eyes darted to Emily, who was peering out from behind my shoulder, and a bizarre, desperate smile twisted his lips.
"Emily, sweet girl," Richard coaxed, his tone dripping with sickening familiarity. "You listen to Uncle Richard. Your mother is playing a dangerous game she doesn't understand. The Prescott family built this city, and we can tear it down—including every military pension and security clearance your mother holds."
"Try it," I stepped forward, putting myself squarely between him and my daughter. "Try revoking anything while federal marshals are tearing your downtown offices to shreds. You're standing in a crime scene, Richard. And you're trespassing on a federal investigation."
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Richard's eyes dropped from my face down to the open wall safe. He saw the titanium hard drive sitting beside the leather journal. A sudden, feral desperation flashed across his features, and before I could blink, he dropped his leather bag and lunged across the room straight for the safe.
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