Chapter 4 - The Raid on Grand Avenue
By 8:15 AM, Grand Avenue was blocked off by four black SUVs flashing blue and red emergency lights.
A crowd of morning commuters and news cameras had already gathered outside the imposing marble entryway of Kant Enterprises. Federal agents in blue jackets with bold gold letters—IRS-CI and FBI—were marching through the glass revolving doors carrying empty document crates and digital imaging hardware.
I stood on the sidewalk across the street, wrapped in a long black cashmere coat, wearing dark sunglasses, holding a warm cup of coffee. Beside me stood Marcus Vance.
"Thomas just called," Marcus said softly, looking up at the high-rise tower. "They caught David inside his corner office. He was frantically trying to run a shredder when the marshals breached the suite."
"Did he get anything destroyed?"
"Nothing," Marcus chuckled dryly. "Our team had already mirrored his cloud servers at 6:00 AM. Every file he tried to delete was automatically duplicated onto the U.S. Attorney’s secure server. He was literally shredding blank copies."
At that moment, the double glass doors of the building burst open.
Two armed federal marshals stepped out first, followed by David.
He wasn't wearing his tailored jacket. His crisp white shirt was wrinkled, his silk tie undone at the collar, and his hands were cuffed behind his back. His hair was messy, and his eyes darted frantically around the street as news camera shutters clicked like a flock of frantic mechanical birds.
Behind him walked his father, Richard. The elder Kant looked completely broken. The arrogant man who had swirled his wine and excused my abuse twelve hours ago was now stumbling down the granite steps, his hands secured in heavy steel irons around his waist, flanked by two stern-faced federal prosecutors.
As the marshals led David toward the rear door of the lead black SUV, his eyes swept across the crowd gathered on the sidewalk.
He saw me.
David stopped dead in his tracks. The marshal pushed his shoulder, but David resisted, staring across the street at me with a look of terrifying, unadulterated shock.
"Clara!" David roared across the busy avenue, his voice cracking with desperation. "Clara! Tell them! Tell them it’s a mistake! Tell them you authorized those transfers!"
I didn't shout back. I didn't raise my fist.
I simply pulled my sunglasses down half an inch, looked him dead in the eye, and took a quiet, deliberate sip of my coffee.
"Clara! Please!" David screamed as the marshal forced his head down to push him into the back seat of the SUV. "It was Vanessa! She made me do it! It wasn't me! Clara!"
The heavy SUV door slammed shut, cutting off his panicked screams.
May you like
Marcus turned to me, offering a quiet, respectful nod. "Phase one complete. Now, what about the mistress?"
"Vanessa Cole is currently sitting in her luxury penthouse on 4th Street," I said, pulling a secondary document from my folder. "She thinks David is picking her up at 9:00 AM for a Christmas flight to St. Barts. Let's go make sure she doesn't miss her appointment."
